


Crossing Bridges

by Schmiezi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Childhood Trauma, Depression, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Romance, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-27
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-24 20:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/944364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmiezi/pseuds/Schmiezi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back later in life, John always felt that he should have seen it coming sooner. But the first weeks after the Heroic Return had been so filled up with moving back in and press conferences and  recovering from the recent months and explaining and forgiving and soothing hurt friends and solving that case Lestrade had brought to them probably just to come to terms with Sherlock again that John only realised something was seriously wrong with his friend when it was too late for an easy way out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set after the reunion of Sherlock and John, but I don't consider it to be a typical post-Reichenbach fic. Please also note that it ignores all spoilers floating around the internet.
> 
> If you mind angst and fluffy stuff and romance and sex, you should probably not read this. :-)
> 
> Serious warning, though: if depression or mention of suicide are triggers for you, you should REALLY not read this. 
> 
> Eternal thanks to GoSherlocked for more reasons than could be listed up here, extended beta-ing only being one of them. Also love to Tobe, Harriet, Steph, the Doc, Bev, Suezanne and NoPlastic for providing ideas, opinions and criticisms.

Looking back later in life, John always felt that he should have seen it coming sooner. But the first weeks after the Heroic Return had been so filled up with moving back in and press conferences and recovering from the recent months and explaining and forgiving and soothing hurt friends and solving that case Lestrade had brought to them probably just to come to terms with Sherlock again that John only realised something was seriously wrong with his friend when it was too late for an easy way out.

Of course he hadn't given it too much thought when Sherlock slept in after solving the case. It had been a demanding one, with running down the streets all day and spending nights in bizarre pubs and an unhealthy amount of nightly hours hiding behind a container at the harbour in the cold rain. All that was added to the bad shape Sherlock had been in when returning. Actually, John had been rather happy that Sherlock finally got some rest.

And of course he hadn't given it too much thought when Sherlock had been more irritated by him than usual the other day. He had rather expected him to be, for they needed to get used to living together again, no matter how much they had missed each other.

There was nothing to worry about when Sherlock spent the first really quiet day after the Heroic Return in his pyjamas and dressing gown, playing the violin for hours and hours, filling the flat with melancholic and bitter-sweet songs. John had made himself comfortable on the sofa, laptop on his knees, listening to the tunes, just taking in the full meaning of the word “Return”.

He was mildly surprised though when Sherlock went to bed rather early that night. But then, who knew what he was up to in that room. He had taken John's laptop with him, so probably he simply wanted to spend some time without John secretly checking up on him to make sure he was still there.

When John woke up the next morning, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. John went through his own morning routine telling himself he would under no circumstances be so concerned about Sherlock Holmes that he would check out his room to find out if he was there or not. Of course he was only lying to himself. When he quietly opened the door to Sherlock's room an hour later, he found the consulting detective deep in slumber. So he had really been up late yesterday, John thought.

When Sherlock finally got up around noon he looked tired and grumpy and complained about John's every move. For a full day, John was able to face those complaints with good-hearted humour. When it went on the next day he became a bit annoyed. When Sherlock went to sleep in the afternoon after elaborating on how dull everything was, John started to worry.

The next day began with a debate on whether John was tired of making coffee for Sherlock or not. The trigger had been a small sigh of John's when he realised he had made only one cup, just like he had when he had been alone. He cursed himself silently, handed the cup over to Sherlock and started to brew another one for himself.

“I'm sorry if my presence causes you too much extra work,” Sherlock said icily.

John looked at him, mildly surprised, “What?”

“Oh, don't think I can't see it when you're annoyed. Really, if brewing two cups of coffee is too much work for you, I'll just unburden your life by extracting myself again.”

With that, Sherlock got up and went straight back to his own room. John remained standing at the kitchen sink for a long time after that. There was a bad feeling in his stomach he couldn't get rid of. It was not Sherlock's irritating behaviour that shook him deeply, he was used to that. It was the fact that Sherlock had deduced John's sigh completely wrongly that really alarmed him. 

A few hours after the coffee incident John carefully sneaked into Sherlock's darkened room, finding his friend asleep in his bed. He stood in front of him for a while, not sure whether to wake him up or not. Then he made up his mind. This was too important to be ignored. He sat down on the edge of the bed and softly patted Sherlock's shoulder.

“What?” Sherlock moaned, not sounding really sleepy. Had he been awake, just lying in bed? John became more alert now.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his hand still on Sherlock's shoulder. 

He felt him shrugging. “Who cares?”

Remembering how easily Sherlock seemed to be insulted at the moment, John swallowed down the first remark that crossed his mind. “I do,” he simply said instead.

He felt Sherlock shrug again. “Really? It took you four hours and thirty-eight minutes to come in and check on me.”

Okay, this was not going to be easy. But then, when had John ever aimed at easy? He decided to ignore the bait. “What can I do to cheer you up?”, he said instead, hoping to sound a little more cheerful than he felt.

“If you have to ask you don't really have to bother,” Sherlock huffed, but there was more to his voice than just sarcasm. Could it really be insecurity?

All right, one more try. “I thought the apple crumble I've made for you would do the trick. Want some?” His hand still on Sherlock's shoulder, he felt him stir a little, then the movement stopped again.

“Too tired!”

John silently sighed once more. He gently nudged his friend again, then got up. “All right, I'll let you sleep. The apple crumble will be in the fridge if you want some later.”

When he was already at the door, he heard Sherlock's voice, a little too soft, a little too insecure for comfort, “You are going somewhere. Will you come back?”

Something stirred inside John's stomach, something that touched him profoundly. “Of course,” he said. When there was no more reaction, he continued making his way out of Sherlock's room. He nearly missed him saying “Good” just before John closed the door.

***

Mycroft's office was as far from being comfortable as could be, at least if you were sitting on the wrong side of the table. Which John was doing right now. He involuntarily raised his chin in mild defiance when Mycroft's searching glance wandered over him from head to feet.

“You are concerned about Sherlock,” the older Holmes swiftly deduced, looking mildly intrigued. Not a nice expression on any Holmes' face. At least not when you were the reason for it. Which John was right now. God, he hated being here.

“That you are coming to me with it means that Sherlock does not respond well to being worried about, not even when it's you.”

John tried not to show his discomfort, and a flicker of recognition on Mycroft's face told him he had failed hopelessly. “Do you want to do all the talking, or shall I chime in every now and then?” he asked, harsher than he had intended to. Mycroft smiled slightly. Another thing that was not nice if you were at the receiving end.

Mycroft steepled his hands under his chin. “Tell me, John,” he said, sounding almost sincere. “What causes your concern for my little brother?”

“He's not himself,” John started, and when Mycroft just looked at him blandly, he went on. “He's sleeping way too much, and when he isn't sleeping, he's tired or grumpy or melancholic. He feels insulted by nearly everything I do or say or don't do or don't say.”

Mycroft still did not respond, so John went on. “I think he's depressed.” Still no reaction. “I mean … not like just sad ... um … more like … clinical, you know.“ He ruffled his hair fighting to name what had been a sound diagnosis in his head. 

“I'm talking about a so-called atypical depression. He shows a lot of the symptoms, sensitivity to rejection, hypersomnia, and he moves like he's suffering from leaden paralysis as well, at least sometimes. And it fits what I know about him. Many of the possible causes show up in his personal history, especially during his time … away.”

Something in Mycroft's face fell, ever so slightly, but clear enough for John to see. “What?” he demanded, holding the other man's gaze now.

To his surprise, it was Mycroft who broke it first. There was disappointment in his voice when he remarked, “So, it finally has come to that. I hadn't expected you to do that, John.”

John silently counted to ten and then felt calm enough to go on talking. “What am I doing?” He was downright angry now. The last days spent in Sherlock's edgy company had brought him to the edge as well, and Mycroft was extremely … well, Mycroft-y today.

“You are putting a label on him when he gets a bit difficult.” Yes, there really was disappointment in Mycroft's face. That tipped John over. He stood up so abruptly that the heavy ebony chair nearly fell.

“Damn it, Mycroft, I'm not here because I feel a bit uncomfortable at home at the moment. I'm here because I'm seriously concerned about Sherlock,” he yelled, not wanting to calm down at all. “Atypical depression is a serious mental disease, and one with good chances of healing if treated properly. There is no reason for him to suffer like that!”

At that, Mycroft's face turned to stone. “Well,” he said acidly, “so you think it is a good idea to prescribe drugs to a man with Sherlock's past?”

“I didn't … I'm not talking about drugs, Mycroft,” John explained, forcing himself to calm down again. “Talk therapy is also an option, one that could ...”

Mycroft regarded him coldly. “What you are telling me, Dr. Watson, is that my brother is sleeping a lot and makes sharp remarks occasionally. Why would these minor occurrences bother you enough to come here?”

John looked at him sharply. Because it hurts me to see him like that, he thought. “Because I'm a doctor. I can't watch him suffer without helping him,” he said instead.

Something in Mycroft's expression grew softer. No doubt he had seen the real reason flicker across John's face. Reluctantly, John sat down again. “You know that my brother's brain is constantly working at the highest level,” Mycroft explained, his voice now without any sign of hostility. “Every few years, it seems to … get out of sync for a while.” John watched the older man's eyes drifting off, getting lost in unpleasant memories.

“The first time it happened when he was thirteen. The constant sensory overload triggered a migraine so severe we had to admit him to a clinic for three weeks because his body started to shut down from constant pain. The last time it happened, he nearly killed himself twice on an overdose of cocaine trying to kick his head back into action. You will understand that sleeping, moving slowly and being grumpy does not concern me to the core.”

They looked at each other for a while. This time it was John who broke the gaze. “I'm just concerned,” he repeated weakly.

Mycroft nodded with something close to sympathy. “He'll be fine, John. Give him some time and he will soon be his old, charming self.” 

John tried to smile, still not appeased at all. Mycroft might have his flaws, but towards Sherlock he was nothing but over-protective. If he did not worry, John felt like he should let down his guard a little, too. If only he could. 

Already on his way out, he turned once more and asked “Why do you think that this time will be less dramatic than the last two?”

In response Mycroft regarded him with a look that was so similar to Sherlock's “How-stupid-can-one-person-be”-glance it sent a shiver down John's spine. “Well,” the older Holmes said, his tone of voice matching his glance, “this time he's got you.”

***

When John came back home  
(walks slowly, steps thoughtfully, away for one hour thirteen minutes, took cab, heavy traffic on Park Lane at this time, means he spent at least thirty-two minutes at Mycroft's office, where else would he go when concerned about me, I needed ten minutes to figure that one out, brain's too slow)  
Sherlock had made it from his bed to the sofa  
(really planned to get up and look through cold cases file Lestrade had brought yesterday, but too tired, brain too sluggish, thoughts too slow, I've failed)  
but not to the kitchen to eat.  
(too tired, legs heavy like lead, arms too, brain won't work properly, can't think)

He pretended not to notice his friend going into the kitchen, opening the fridge  
(checks out if I've eaten, why can't he leave me alone why does he have to find proof that I've failed to get up properly why does he have to make himself disappointed by me?)  
then approaching the sofa slowly  
(carrying a tray? Still feels the need to take care of me will get sick of taking care of me soon everybody always does how can he stand me like this no one can not even Mycroft not even I can)  
and placing the tray on the table.  
(should turn around and thank him too tired head too heavy to move he'll be disappointed can't too tired)

“Here, maybe you'll feel more like eating later,” he heard John's soft voice.  
(always soft when taking care, how can he not see that I don't deserve it? he's not an idiot he will find out soon)  
When Sherlock did not react  
(better he finds out sooner than later saves us both time but I don't want him to leave me if I just ignore him he won't find out too soon and will stay another while before turning away)  
John patted his shoulder  
(feels soothing should say something too tired disappointed him again)  
and settled down on his chair to write something on his laptop.  
(watching me should eat to show good will but arms won't move body refuses to move too heavy too tired need to sleep he'll be only more concerned if I won't eat concern will become obligation, obligation will become annoyance, constant annoyance will make him move out)

With the soft clicking noise of the keyboard in the background, Sherlock drifted into another dreamless, restless sleep.

***

Over the next few days, Sherlock's moods more and more resembled a roller-coaster ride. Sometimes he would be up and running and in a better mood for a few hours if intrigued enough by some experiment or whatever, but from one second to the next he would become irritated and sour and would finally retreat to the sofa or his bed again.

No matter how often John told himself to remain indifferent to the insults thrown in his direction it became harder each day as the insults became more fierce. He had always considered himself a patient man, especially when it came to Sherlock, but he felt his good-will running thin.

There were those very few occasions where he snapped back at one of Sherlock's meaner remarks. That always left him feeling guilty, wishing he could forget the hurt he was forced to see on his friend's face afterwards, knowing it would make Sherlock even grumpier. But it was a vicious circle, and John was not really sure of how to break it.

They finally reached the point of no return when Greg came over to present a case he was working on. He must have had a chat with Mrs Hudson, most likely asking her about Sherlock's condition, for they entered the flat together, both getting into the line of fire instantly. Sherlock was up and even nearly dressed, but in a dark mood, lashing out at each and everything he could reach. 

John had taken cover in his room about two hours before, and only came down once more because he felt obliged to prevent Sherlock from hitting both the DI and their landlady at point-blank. A stupid mistake, that. “... but you could surely solve more cases on your own if you worried less about your non-existent sex life and more about alibis,” he heard Sherlock grump.

Not a second too late, John thought. “All right, boys,” he joked, “stop fighting or you'll all get sent to bed without dinner.” Not his best line, but it had only been meant to lighten the mood a little. What happened instead was that Sherlock turned around to face him, focusing all his anger completely on John now. Not good.

“Oh, decided to come out of hiding?” Sherlock snarled coldly. “If you had done that more often in your life your father wouldn't have been that contemptuous of you before he died, you know?” John just stared at him for a moment, not knowing what to say. He heard Mrs Hudson draw a breath. He felt himself flinch, trying hard not to let his hurt show on his face. It did hurt, of course. Sherlock knew him better than anyone else, and he knew exactly which buttons to push. 

“Well, when you've made up your mind about the case ...” Greg bravely tried to stop Sherlock, but it was too late.

Sherlock's eyes were literally blazing when he went on, “But then, if you had hidden less, you would have been home before he died, right? Could have brought him to hospital in time.”

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, ignoring the nagging pain in his belly, remaining calm, completely concentrating on remaining calm. Ignoring the fact that his face was burning, that his fingertips were prickling. Blocking out the unwanted pity in Greg's face, the sympathy Mrs Hudson seemed to feel for him.

“And just in case you all were wondering ...” Sherlock went on, a cold smile on his lips, that kind of smile that was usually used to convict criminals.

“Sherlock, stop it!” John pressed out more urgent now, really fighting for his composure.

“... yes, John, your fear has been justified all the time ...”

“Don't!” But there was no stopping now.

“... your mother did favour your sister on her death bed even though Harry was drunk while you ...” 

“THAT'S ENOUGH!” John yelled, his whole body shaking with rage. He stared at Sherlock's arrogant mask for what felt like an eternity, even in his angry state still looking for a sign of regret in his friend's face. All he found was that terrible smile and an expression in his eyes he'd never seen there before. Without saying anything else, John turned on his heels and left the flat. 

Mrs Hudson's words followed him out: “Oh, look what you have done now, love.”

“I knew he would leave eventually,” was the last thing he heard Sherlock say before slamming the door shut.

 

***

When John came back much later  
(four hours fifty-two minutes, soaking wet because of rain, preferred staying out in the rain to coming home, perfectly understandable)  
he went straight up into his room without even coming into the living room where Sherlock was curled up on the sofa.  
(crossing the landing in only two wide strides still angry no affection left rightfully so)

Sherlock listened to his steps for a while.  
(three steps, pause, three steps, pause, stop-go between bed and dresser, packing, steps pause steps pause again and again, packing lots of his things, dresser must be nearly empty now leaving for longer period, now five steps pause five steps pause stop-go between wardrobe for winter clothing and bed, too warm for wool jumpers now, he's leaving, steps pause steps pause packs to leave for good  
now down the stairs with heavy suitcase, into my room, must be searching for his things that are scattered all over the place, still doesn't look at me or talk to me why should he, he's leaving)

Sherlock's eyes refused to stay open, his mind trying to force itself into slumber again  
(can't help it anyway might as well get over it already so tired)  
and he felt part of himself drifting away while in the background he still heard John rummaging around his room.  
(so many things how can he separate his things from mine so much stuff so intertwined with mine shouldn't be separated he's really leaving me)

Despite his inner turmoil he must have dozed off, for John's voice  
(coming from my room, still packing, can't tell his mood, brain too sluggish)  
made him wake up with a start. “Where's the green suitcase?”  
(storeroom behind the kitchen on the second shelf next to the Turkish sabre and the bowling pin it's mine)

“It's mine,” Sherlock said, just loud enough to be heard inside his room.  
(never thought about whether something was mine or his any longer need to separate it now he's the one who's leaving it's his task to separate them)

“I know that,” John answered,  
(muffled, carrying something heavy, could deduce what but to what end? Won't complain if he takes my possessions away I hurt him that's why he's leaving only fair that leaving me hurts me in return)  
“but where is it?”  
(but I don't have to help him finding my possessions)

Sherlock blocked out every other comment from John for a while.  
(hurts even more than I thought hurry up finish it so I can get over it can I get over it? Do I need to rearrange my mind palace or can I just seal John's room for good?)  
Finally another one of John's question sneaked its way into Sherlock's consciousness, “Do you prefer the black boots or the brown ones?”  
(trying to find out how to hurt me the worst? That's not like John even leaving-John would not be that cruel but why does he want to know why does he want to take my boots anyway they don't fit him his feet are too small)  
Curiosity finally got the better of him, and with a huge amount of effort Sherlock heaved his leaden body  
(so heavy so tired)  
up from the sofa, slowly trudging towards his room, leaning heavily against the door frame.

What he found there took him by surprise, and his brain simply refused to make sense of it.  
(John packing my clothes into the green suitcase, most of my shirts and trousers all my socks my only two warm sweaters four of my pyjamas why?)  
He just stared at John, completely clueless.  
(why?)  
“Hey,” John said, a wry little smile on his lips, “did you make up your mind about the boots?”  
(why?)

When Sherlock did not answer  
(am I the one who's leaving? But he packed his clothes too, why why why?)  
John's expression showed concern once more  
(saw that way too often over the last weeks, why is he still concerned he's leaving isn't he?)  
and he shrugged, “Well, it's all right, don't bother. I'll pack both pairs and you can decide which ones to wear when we're there.”  
(we?)  
(there?)

Sherlock just stared at John, still uncomprehending  
(we?)  
for what seemed like forever before he forced himself to ask, “Where?”  
(so tired)

The concern on John's face grew deeper. “To Achitlibuie.  
(North-western Scotland, Highlands, 10 miles north-west of Ullapool, Tom Longstaff, Scottish Gaelic: Achd Ille Bhuidhe)  
I told you so when I was packing your stuff. Weren't you listening?”  
(no)

Then his brain picked up a few of the straws.  
(two suitcases, we, lonesome village at the coast, we, going there together, he's not leaving is he not leaving? why not why should he take me on a trip instead of leaving me he's not leaving he's staying I did not lose him why isn't he leaving?)

The full impact of this hit Sherlock with brutal force  
(not leaving)  
and he felt his knees buckle.  
(tired)  
Slowly he slid down the door frame.  
(so tired not leaving)

A pressure he hadn't noticed before seemed to be lifted off his chest all of a sudden, and he gasped.  
(breathing's difficult, eyes burning, too tired to hold back sobs, wet cheeks, shoulders shaking, steps coming closer, a hand pressing my head against a chest, another hand pressing against my back, stroking, rocking me, inviting to let go, not leaving, never leaving)

Cuddled against John like this he cried and cried until a deep and dreamless sleep finally pulled him into oblivion once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for this and the following chapters to the friendly people of the Achiltibuie Tourist Association who were nothing but supportive. and who did not even hesitate to answer when I asked them how many people have been killed in Achiltibuie so far (none, BTW).

It took them another three days before Sherlock felt up to facing the journey to Achiltibuie. After his break down he had been extremely quiet, avoiding all social interaction except with Mrs Hudson, who simply hushed him whenever he started to be horrid to her.

John watched them say goodbye in mild surprise. “Don't forget to call me, love,” she commanded Sherlock when hugging him at the train station, “I want to hear from you regularly that you are no longer mean to John.” Sherlock nodding at that in silence worried John more than Sherlock being angry and cruel.

It was a rather long trip by train, but John had been adamant about this one, strongly believing in this “the way is the goal” thing. He felt it absolutely necessary to show to Sherlock how far away from London they were going to be, hoping that the geographical distance might bring an emotional distance as well.

And so they travelled to Edinburgh by night train, took a four hour train ride to Inverness in the morning and had to go on from there by bus, first nearly two hours to Ullapool, then finally another two hours to Achitlibuie.

The whole time Sherlock seemed to stay inside the shell he had erected around himself after the episode in his room. He barely looked at John, made sure they did not accidentally touch, did not react at all when John reached for his elbow to guide him towards the right train at King's Cross.

He must have slept all through the way to Edinburgh, and when they were heading towards Inverness he simply stared outside for hours, leaning his head tiredly against the window. He did not say a single word, and if he was aware of John's concerned glances he did not let it show.

John, on the other hand, barely took his eyes from his friend. There were times when Sherlock's eyes were staring at the outside unmoving, like he was caught in a dark and lonely daydream, and others when his eyes feverishly followed the landscape outside, taking in each and every detail at an alarming speed. Both states made John's stomach clench in concern. 

After a while, he felt as if the entire “way as goal” thing was backfiring on him. You can only spend so many hours being concerned about your friend before your thoughts trail off, and the eight hours it took them to get from Edinburgh to Achitlibuie left more than enough time for unwanted contemplations.

No matter how much he tried to stop it, he could not help remembering the way Sherlock had huddled against him four days ago. He still felt Sherlock's body heat, mixed with hot tears, and when he closed his eyes, he could still imagine Sherlock's hand clinging to John's shirt with so much force it nearly tore the seam apart. He could feel the trembling body pressed against his, the shallow breath against his face.

Good thing that Sherlock was too lost in his own world right now. Normally John was very careful not to let too much of these thoughts show when they were together.

He was no fool and well aware of the fact that if he only looked deep enough inside himself, he would find that his feelings for Sherlock were more than friendship or brotherly affection. It was pure love, no need to beat around the bush there. And to be honest, he would not have to look that deep, either.

But he was also aware of the fact that he was in love with a man who would deduce that John's favourite tea had changed from Earl Grey to Ginger from the way John held his mobile or something. It was absolutely impossible for Sherlock not to notice the feelings John was having for him. Still, he never reacted to it, never commented, never showed disapproval – or approval, whatever. The only reason for that, John had been painfully aware, was that Sherlock simply did not care.

Therefore, John had kept it to himself, carefully hiding the feeling, not willing to risk their friendship by attempting to change it into something else. Yet, no matter how much he hated to admit it, this mixture of friendship and platonic, unrequited love was more fulfilling than any other relationship he ever had.

Still, the memory of holding Sherlock so close … It took quite some willpower to stop his body from reacting to that. When they finally reached Achitlibuie in the afternoon John was tired, and Sherlock was drop-dead exhausted.

At least Mycroft had been right when he had promised John that the little cottage he owned would be the perfect place for Sherlock to find the way back to his normal self. It was simple, far away even from what little population Achitlibuie was offering, surrounded by an austere yet beautiful Highland landscape. The front window offered a wonderful view of the ocean and the nearby Summer Isles.

Sherlock acknowledged it all by taking one swift look around, wrinkled his nose a little and went straight into the bedroom. The only bedroom, John mentally added. “The cottage is rather simple” had not been an understatement then.

The only other room besides the bathroom was the one John was standing in now, a living room with a kitchenette, a rather large dining table and a lounge with sofa, arm chairs and a small lounge table. Let's hope the sofa is comfortable, John thought as he inspected the rustic looking interior. He briefly wondered what use Mycroft normally made of this cottage.

Not wanting to disturb Sherlock in the bedroom, John refrained from unpacking their suitcases. Instead he made coffee, checked out the groceries that mysteriously were waiting for them in the fridge, attached both their laptops to the wireless LAN and mailed Mycroft, Harry and Mrs Hudson to let them know they had reached their destination uneventfully.

After about an hour he checked out on Sherlock, only to find him in the bed next to the window, huddled against the duvet, breathing deeply and steadily, asleep. John moved closer, thinking about waking him up to make him eat, then thought better of it. Instead he took the luxury of watching him for a while, his dark curls a mess, his delicate lips pressed together. John noted how even in his sleep his forehead was frowning and his fists were clenched. Not a restful sleep then.

After a while, Sherlock started to stir slightly, making a soft, whimpering sound so forlorn it hurt John deep inside. He moved closer carefully, watching Sherlock's closed eyes racing. Bad dream. The whimpering went on, and against better judgement, John stretched out his hand and gently touched Sherlock's head. He stroked his curls, soothing, whispering comforting words without really noticing what he was saying.

Miraculously, the whining stopped, and Sherlock's fists slowly unclenched. He sighed, still sleeping, and a thin smile quickly passed his pale face. Then he turned away from John, huddling further into the duvet, and seemed to fall into a dreamless slumber once more.

John remained by his side for quite a while, watching over his sleep, before he retreated to the living room. He could still feel the softness of the curls on his fingertips. Great, another memory he needed to hide somewhere deep inside himself. Maybe deciding to spend an uncertain amount of time with Sherlock in a 300 square feet cottage with only one proper bedroom had not been his brightest idea so far.

***

When John woke up early the next morning, the bed on the other side of the room was already empty. He tiptoed into the living room, expecting to find Sherlock there, but soon realized that he was alone. He had turned in late yesterday, spending some time on the sofa reading, not willing to explore the surroundings if that meant leaving Sherlock alone without telling him so.

Obviously, Sherlock had not shared that sentiment. On the dining table there was a hand-written note. It read: “Outside. Don't wait up.”. Well. Good. Kind of. At least he had thought to leave a note. John did not like the idea of a depressed Sherlock getting lost in the Highlands, but then he had come here with a purpose. If spending the day alone in the wilderness was what helped Sherlock to recover, John would be fine with it.

After breakfast, John got himself a pen and added “Me, too.” No need to sit at home like an abandoned housewife. He grabbed his jacket and went out.

He had to admit the scenery was breathtaking. The cottage was built so close to the seaside that it took you less than a minute to get to the shingle beach. And there John stood for a while, breathing in the salted, chilly air, before idly wandering along the coast. 

Behind him, the soft hills were rising, and there was an overall quiet he had not experienced in many, many years. All he could hear was the ocean, an occasionally screaming sea-bird and some sheep in the distance. The sun was shining from an incredibly blue sky, the few clouds looking like they were attached there on purpose, only to underline the vast blue openness.

John took in a deep breath once more. It was almost impossible to be walking through this lonely idyll without relaxing instantly. Only now did he feel the burden that had been weighing on his shoulders for so long. The whole insanity of Reichenbach and its aftermath, the stupid case at the harbour afterwards and then Sherlock's spiralling into depression immediately following. John felt like it had been years since he had last taken a deep breath without thinking, mourning or worrying about him. 

“Lovely view, isn't it?” he heard a voice behind him. Surprised, he turned around. On the coastal street there was a woman looking over at him, her bike leaning against the knee-high stone wall. Dutifully, he approached her, secretly wishing her to leave him alone again, but being too well-mannered to say so.

“Yes,” he answered, while looking at her closer as he reached the street. She was a bit smaller than him, probably in her late twenties, her hair somewhat too dark to be blonde and too light to be brown.

She stretched out her hand, “I'm Grace.”

He shook it, and politely replied, “John Watson.” 

That made her smile grow even broader. “Oh, they don't really do family names here,” she explained. “Not enough people around to make it necessary, I guess.”

“So you're not from here?” John went on, still wishing she would just go away again.

“No, but I've been working here for nearly three years now. I'm the private tutor of Maria's and Neil's children. Are you one of the Londoners that moved into the Holmes cottage yesterday? I guess I saw your friend ranging the hills earlier this morning.”

“Oh, um, yes, that's … that's possible.” She smiled at John again, her blue-grey eyes shining with sympathy.

“Well,” she said without breaking the gaze, “I need to be going. Will I see you at the pub sometime?” Asking which pub she meant was needless, as there was only one.

“Oh, um, sure, sure.” John gave her another polite smile, and she touched his arm before heading off. 

Had she been flirting? Not that it mattered, but it sure had been nice to be at the receiving end of a flirtation for once. Giving that thought a little smile, he went on, walking down the coast and back again for hours before feeling up to entering the centre of Achitlibuie to meet the locals.

***

On the first day after their arrival, Sherlock wandered the lonely countryside simply with the purpose of leaving John alone.  
(cottage is too small to avoid him, but being close to him and talking to him would surely mean hurting him again, hurting John is to be avoided at all costs)  
He had told Mrs Hudson about it on the phone  
(voice caring and warm, but still concerned I might hurt John again.  
So am I)  
wondering how his life would have turned out had he not tried to raid her house in Florida that Monday afternoon six years ago  
(disastrous).

 

He tried to scan their surroundings  
(thirty-four houses in the vicinity of four square miles, ten of them outside Achitlibuie, forty-two cars, four different flocks of sheep, only one street)  
and to deduce the relationship of the few people he observed from afar  
(the two teenagers in the hills: hiding from parental disapproval, parents of girl believe boy is bad influence, rightfully so will leave her after sexual contact  
the older woman living alone in a cottage far away from the centre: no contact to three children, no close relationship to other citizens, mean woman  
the middle-aged gray-haired web designer with the Border Collie: sick, two heart attacks already, wife doesn't know about medical condition, is cheating on him while he takes the dog out)  
but found that the dark fog in his head, the foul mood that made him tired and slow and heavy and mean was too persistent to be penetrated.

***

John spent the second day walking along the coast, wandering the little town – which really did not take long – and getting to know people better. Even though he was not one to collect good friends like stamps, he was generally easy-going and therefore welcomed by the hospitable locals.

At the shop he was greeted warmly by a young man who introduced himself eagerly as Toby Coventry. “You are the fifteenth tourist this year,” he beamed at John, his freckles making his face appear even more happy, his red hair a dishevelled mess.

The fifteenth? “Well, that's ...” John started, not quite sure if that was a lot or not, but Toby continued talking right away.

“We thought tourism would decrease after the hydroponicum was closed, but looks like we are holding it steady. So, that tall guy that arrived with you, is he another of these strange Holmes people?”

After some more small talk, John was sent to the post office, because Toby thought that David, who was working there, should also meet him. David, a serious looking man about Toby's age, told him more about how often Mycroft would come here and how everybody in Achiltibuie thought he was a spy like James Bond.

When John entered the pub that evening, he was quickly greeted by Toby and David and invited for some beer and a discussion on whether they should tell Henry that Martha was cheating on him while he was taking the dog out or not.

He met Marlow, who was also employed by Neil and Maria Gibson, and Maggie, Toby's sister and Achitlibuie's only police officer.

Grace joined them later, seemingly very pleased to see John again, and the subtle flirting continued. She would touch his arm every now and then, give him a deeper look than Toby and David, encourage him to tell them about life in London. It was absolutely not what he was looking for, but it was a welcome change from what he had been through the last weeks.

***

On the second day it took Sherlock two hours  
(should have been faster, brain still sluggish and disobedient)  
to figure out that after his extended trip yesterday there was nothing new left to deduce besides the weather  
(bound to stay warm and dry with wind coming from north-west)  
and how long it would take the boy to finally make sexual contact.  
(two more days)

He sat down on a solitary bench  
(wooden, more than twenty years old, boring)  
halfway up one of the hills,  
(Cambrian, boring)  
looked down at the coast, the ocean and the Summer Isles  
(also Cambrian, no streets, one café, one post-office, one Atlantic salmon farm, tourists, boring)  
and to his surprise found his mind start wandering.  
(unpleasant)  
(but welcome, not boring, unpleasantness is well-deserved)

He embraced the unpleasant sensation of feeling guilty and unworthy of human affection and slow and tired and heavy and sluggish and guilty. He sat on that bench for more than six hours  
(six hours twelve minutes)  
without really knowing what he had done all the time.

***

Over the course of three days, their lives had fallen into a certain routine. John spent the days outside on the coast or sitting in the garden behind the cottage, reading or writing. In the evenings he would go to the pub, meeting the locals and very soon he got to know most of them. He even got a glimpse of Neil and Maria Gibson, Grace's bosses. They stayed only inside the pub for about an hour, but the change in atmosphere during that time was remarkable. 

It was not the fact that the Gibsons were obviously richer than everyone else, exposing that wealth by living on an enormously huge estate called Thor Manor, located at Polbain. It was the way Maria looked at Neil, lovingly and obedient, and the way Neil met her affection with harsh words and criticism. When they finally left again, everybody was relieved. “They are always like that,” Toby explained.

“Poor Maria, coming all the way from Brazil to end up with such a sod,” Marlow said.

Sherlock on the other hand seemed to spend all the time he was awake in the hills, coming home only to eat and sleep, usually arriving when John was not there. Every day he stayed away longer, but as sleeping too much was one symptom of the atypical depression, John took it as a good sign that he was awake more often now.

***

On the third day, nothing had changed in the sparse setting around Sherlock  
(boy still needs one day to get girl, shepherd's wife cheated on shepherd again, weather not changing)  
and he felt good enough to take a closer look at the dark thoughts he had simply let buzz by the day before. They had been about his childhood,  
(unpleasant)  
his father's death,  
(too painful, unable to lock it up in the mind palace)  
mistakes he had made,  
(plenty)  
consequences he had avoided.  
(too many)

And every second thought had been of John.  
(unusually high amount)

That evening he had come back with the intention to talk to him, to find out why John had never left him, but when he entered the cottage, he found it empty.  
(but freshly prepared food in the oven, one serving already eaten, note for me to eat the rest, he still cares)  
Another note told him that John had gone out to the pub.  
(third day in a row, rather there than with me)  
(understandable)

“John has not left yet,” he told Mrs Hudson when he called her later that night, and stopped listening to her when she told him  
(voice steady, is really convinced she's telling the truth)  
that John would never leave if Sherlock only tried a little to be good.  
(impossible task)

***

They did not get to see each other too much that way, and when they were both at the cottage at the same time, Sherlock was either extremely reserved or overly grumpy. 

No wonder, really, that when Sherlock came home on the fourth day and instantly disappeared into the bedroom, John did not notice any difference and hence completely missed the epiphany that had happened.

***

On that fourth day  
(girl crying, had sex, boy left her of course, tomorrow it will rain a little)  
Sherlock welcomed the austere surroundings and once more allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts. He still wanted to find out what caused him to think so much about John.

Each and every thing he regretted when it came to John  
(semtex, the note, Grimpen, the drugs in the coffee, arrogant remarks, ignoring him for the Woman, not telling him I saved her life, insults, sniper, note on the rooftop, being gone, long list)  
was replayed. Why was John still there? This question stubbornly remained in his head  
(no logical reason)  
but even more puzzling was the question why Sherlock cared so much about it.  
(about him)

Curious, he started to analyse the room John had got in his mind palace,  
(warm, welcoming, bright, safe, comfortable, soft, sunny, interesting, mellow)  
what he generally thought of John  
(brave, trustworthy, friend, intelligent compared to average people, praises me, best friend, loyal, fun to be with, likes me, high morality, perfect sniper, warm, attractive, expressive, compassionate eyes, reliable, emotional, steady, laughs with me, only friend no need for others, intriguing lips, strong minded, home)  
and mentally re-watched those moments he had valued most  
(a hand holding on to my sleeve even though we were hand-cuffed anyway, an innocent look after shooting the cabbie, calling me an idiot afterwards, a disdainful look at Sebastian Wilkes that sod, being heaved back to bed by him after being drugged by the Woman, laughing about chasing that cab, a hand on the back of my head when crying four days ago, him not leaving me)

Then,  
(oh)  
contemplating his feelings during these situations once more,  
(OH!)  
he finally understood.

For a while, he simply continued to sit on that bench, staring at the ocean  
(what now?)  
completely unable to react to this revelation, listening to his quickly beating heart.  
(does John know?)  
That thought caused a wave of emotions  
(panic? anticipation? fear? hope?)  
rushing through him, taking his breath away, leaving a lump in his throat, doing funny things to his eyes. When his frozen state became ridiculous, he grabbed his phone and called the only person he would dare to ask for  
(help, compassion, pity?)  
advice.

Sherlock paced up and down in front of that bench,  
(more energetic than before, does sentiment always influence you like that? Need to ask John. NO, not John)  
(panic again and hope and fear)  
waiting for Mrs Hudson to answer her phone.  
(Tuesday, 1 pm, normally at home that time, has eaten already, not started her after-lunch nap yet)  
“Sherlock, dear,” he heard her voice  
(afraid I've done something stupid again)  
“how are things going in Scotland?”  
(translated: Have you messed up with John again?)

Ignoring both the unspoken and the spoken question, he said: “Mrs Hudson, I've just had an important epiphany.”  
(empty meaningless sentence to further delay voicing the revelation. intriguing how difficult it is to put it into words)

“What is it?” she asked curiously.  
(not guessing what I'm about to say)

“I am ...” he started  
(really reluctant to say it, funny)  
(reluctant to feel it? yes. no. hope-fear-panic)  
“... in love with John.”  
(so, it's out. Still feels funny. But well-done!)

“Oh, I know, dear. Why are you telling me that now?”

(?)  
“What do you mean, you know? I've just found it out right now.” He was unable  
(and unwilling)  
to keep his irritation out of his voice.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson went on,  
(she's smiling)  
“are you serious? It's been so obvious. I've always thought the only person in the world who doesn't know is John.”  
(John doesn't know. Good. That's good!)  
(or isn't it?)

“What are you going to do now?” she asked.  
(with a mixture of amusement and pity in her voice. Stupid question)

“Why would I do something?” he answered.  
(panic subsided. push hope away)

“Well”, she said,  
(now definitely more pity than amusement)  
“will you tell him? I mean, if he knows, the two of you could ...”  
(ridiculous)

“Mrs Hudson,”  
(Why would anyone love me? Stupid idea)  
Sherlock tutted, “as the idea of John ... of anyone loving me is absurd at best, there is no need to take action.” And before she got the chance to say more, he hung up on her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If suicide triggers something for you, please skip this chapter.

In the early hours of day five, when it was no longer late at night, but not yet early morning, John's mind finally gave in to the stress of the last weeks.

John recognized the dream instantly. It was a recurring one, yet one that had stayed away from him for years now. More a memory than a dream, hunting him for years before finally becoming less frequent. He was at his parents' house in Croydon, just entering through the front door. Had to use his key because Dad did not answer the door bell. Harry was with a friend. Mum had been dead for two years now.

He had had another fight with Dad, wanting him to drink less, and had left the house in anger. Coming back now after cooling off, he found his home unusually silent. Dad was never silent, especially not when he was drunk. When he was awake, he was roaring and smashing things and cursing. When he was asleep, he was snoring and sighing.

He went upstairs to his room, noticing the lights were turned on in the bathroom. No sound came from inside. At that point John was always aware of the fact that he was dreaming, but never seemed to be able to change the way the memories unfolded. 

So he opened the bathroom door again, like so many times in his dream before, exactly like he did so many years ago. His eyes fell on the blood on the wall tiles before he noticed the body on the ground. So much blood. Being in the middle of his first year at med school he instantly knew that it was way too much for his father to be still alive. His stomach squirmed, the room went spinning, and for long seconds he was only able to stare. 

But something was wrong. This was not how the dream usually went. He was not staring at his father's stout, lifeless body. This time, it was a long, slender form lying amidst the red, the face averted, a mop of dark curls soaked with blood. No.

John's legs moved on their own, approaching the body in slow-motion, needing an endless amount of time to kneel down next to it. Oh no, please not. His hand stretched out like it had a will of its own, turning Sherlock's already cold corpse around softly.

His hands were entwined with a soaked towel. Just like Edward Watson he must have tried to stop the bleeding, regretting his suicide attempt, but being too drunk, too badly damaged to prevent his death. He must have clung to it with panic while dying, for it was scrambled around his long fingers. Now, the muscle relaxation that came with death had left it lying loosely in Sherlock's half opened fist.

John's eyes swept from the towel to the pale skin of the arms. The tentative cuts were visible on both wrists despite all the blood. He must have tried to find the artery four or five times before succeeding. On both arms.

There was a sadness, the one that would always happen in this dream, that heaved itself onto John now, pressing down on him with a soul-drenching grief he had never experienced in real life. A feeling that took all hope away, that filled him and surrounded him and told him he would never, ever be happy again in his whole life.

Sherlock's eyes were closed, his mouth hanging open. John never understood why people in films and books always made such a fuss over dead eyes. Ever since finding his father like this he knew that nothing was more haunting than the lifeless, slack jaw that could only be seen in the face of the dead.

The sadness held him completely in its grip now, and he felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He helplessly cupped Sherlock's face, unable to move, unable to call for help, unable to look away.

“Decided to come out of hiding, John?” he heard a deep voice from behind him. No, this was wrong, too. There had never been someone else … John turned his head around slowly, looking at a dark, nebulous figure that was hovering on the doorstep. Tall and erect, with what could have been a flapping coat and a crown of curls around his misty head. John wanted this to stop, he wanted to wake up, but the sadness was holding him in place steadily, leaving him absolutely unable to react.

“You weren't here when he died, John,” the figure's baritone went on merciless. It was true. Oh god it was so true. He used all his strength to look away from it, only to find his gaze falling onto Sherlock's quiet, drenched body once more. He tried to speak to the figure at the door, to tell him to stop, to disappear, to stop. Only a sob came out of his mouth.

“You could have taken him to hospital in time, John,” he went on and on, cutting deep into John's soul, hurting him even more than before. If only it weren't true. He could have saved him, but he hadn't been there. And he was sorry, so sorry, but that did not change a single thing and it would never bring him back and it would never ever end hurting.

“JOHN!”

That jerked him out of his nightmare so suddenly he felt like falling and drowning and spinning around all the same time. He was gulping for air, feeling his body shaking, and slowly became aware that he was sitting in his bed upright, looking into Sherlock's face, into eyes wide open with fear and concern. “John, do you hear me?” he asked, probably not for the first time. John felt his hands on his shoulders, holding him, shaking him a little. He nodded, unable to speak, still fighting for breath.

Instinctively John reached out for Sherlock's neck, his hand searching for the arteria carotis, feeling his strong, steady pulse. Feeling he was alive. Their eyes locked for a second, and John instantly knew that Sherlock was completely aware of what this dream had been about. And which of his former actions had triggered it.

John knew he had every right to be angry with Sherlock, but the sadness in him was still so real and the feeling of grief and regret and guilt so strong. So instead of withdrawing from him, John allowed his body to sag against his friend, forcing Sherlock to take him into his arms to prevent them both from losing their balance. He let himself be consoled by the physical contact, still trying to calm down his breath, unable, unwilling to talk.

He felt Sherlock holding perfectly still for a while. Then he felt a hand on his back, slowly moving in soothing circles. It continued until he drifted into sleep once more.

***

Later in the morning of the fifth day, John nearly suffered a heart attack when he sleepily walked into the living room and found Sherlock sitting there for the first time since they got to Achitlibuie.

“Good morning,” Sherlock greeted him casually. Was it wishful thinking, or did he sound way more at ease than only yesterday? John smiled only a little, still carefully treading around him, still worn out from the dream. “I made coffee,” Sherlock continued and threw a short glance at John. There was something strange about it. If John hadn't known better, he would have said his friend looked a bit shy. 

Stupid, John told himself, why should he? “Thanks, that's … thanks,” he said, not quite sure what else to say. At that, Sherlock gave him a genuine little smile that disappeared so quickly that John was left to wonder if it had been there at all. Weird.

For a while, they just sat next to each other at the dining table, Sherlock pretending to read something on his laptop but secretly watching John drinking his coffee, and John drinking his coffee, pretending not to notice that Sherlock was secretly watching him.

The very second that John had put down the empty cup Sherlock moved towards the door. Okay, so it had been a short interlude. At least they had been in the same room without getting snippy or angry. Incredible how much John had missed him. That. Had missed that.

The door already half open, Sherlock turned around, as if suddenly thinking of something. “Would you … “ he started, and John watched his nose wrinkle instantly. They stared at each other. When it became clear that Sherlock was not going to finish that sentence, lost in some strange loop of thoughts, John made an encouraging “Um?” sound that somehow pulled Sherlock back to the present. His nose wrinkled even more. “Would you like to join me?” he asked, helplessly lost in a funny pose between showing coolness, being over-anxious and expecting rejection.

He looked incredibly young that way, and very vulnerable. It was a sight that could have made John fall in love with him, had that not already occurred a long time ago. John smiled, wider this time. “Sure.” 

“I'm not very talkative right now” Sherlock stated after they had ranged the mountain side by side in silence for two hours.

“Good thing you mentioned that, I wouldn't have noticed otherwise,” John quipped good-heartedly, and to his surprise Sherlock gave him another one of those little smiles that warmed John's stomach more than it should. 

After another hour of silence John observed Sherlock's eyes getting darker. “Feeling worse again?” he asked, risking a direct approach to the touchy subject of Sherlock's emotions. He got a simple nod in return, not even directed at him.

Of course, it was unrealistic to hope that merely four days of holiday had already whipped away the dark mood from his mind. Patients could be suffering from atypical depression for years, even with medical treatment or talk therapy. And at the moment, with Sherlock avoiding him most of the time, he felt like this whole trip was doing little to really help Sherlock.

“Do you want me to leave you alone for a while?” John asked, moving closer when Sherlock seemed to back off. Another nod. Good. Well. More or less.

“Yeah, look, I'll go home then. But ...” John quickly continued as he saw the corners of Sherlock's mouth move downwards, “I'll be in the pub later today. Why don't you join me if you feel up to it?”

Finally Sherlock turned towards him again and asked in sad curiosity, “What for?”

What for? Good question. Sherlock never frequented pubs, and “going out” simply was not part of their friendship. At least not when there was no case to solve in the process. But then … “I'd like to be with you,” John said plainly.

Another nose-wrinkling, “Maybe.” John nodded. He felt the overwhelming urge to take Sherlock into his arms and tell him everything would be all right between them. Instead, he simply gave him a non-committal pat on the back and left, wondering just was was going on again inside this funny brain. 

***

John used the rest of the afternoon to make some updates on his blog – nothing too personal, just telling the world where they were, but of course not giving reasons for it. He felt too protective of Sherlock to reveal the detective's current state to any stranger. After having yet another solitary dinner he carefully placed the left-overs in the fridge, not giving up hope that Sherlock might eat some of it, and went to the pub.

The people of Achitlibuie were nothing but friendly and welcoming, and Toby was already moving to make space for him before he even said a word. The easy-going atmosphere was a nice diversion from the current tiptoeing around Sherlock's moods, but still, John missed him. His old self, that is.

And he was pretty sick of feeling guilty for being annoyed lately by Sherlock's flaring temper. Being a doctor, he knew too well it came from the depression, and that he should be more patient. Or should he not? He sighed.

“So thoughtful again?” Grace's lovely voice tore him out of his annoyance. He looked up from his ale and found her smiling innocently at him. Knowing that innocence was faked and only to tease him into flirtation, he smiled back, determined to enjoy a harmless flirt with a nice woman. It was more than unlikely that Sherlock would show up here anyway.

And even if Sherlock showed up, there was no reason to stop flirting, right? Because that was what friends do, right? Flirt with other people, not with each other. No matter how much one of them might want to change that. He sighed inwardly.

“Looks like I need some distraction,” he said with a rueful smile, watching her leaning closer, touching his hand for a second.

“I know the feeling,” she told him, sighing a little herself. “I've spent the whole day trying to teach two indifferent children the depths of French grammar.” She took a mouthful of her own ale and shook her head. “Really, sometimes I miss being a teacher to an entire class. There was always at least one interested pupil in the room. But Murray and Daisy don't seem to have any motivation to learn a foreign language.”

She went on talking about her job, and John listened, occasionally throwing in a question, happy just to let the talking flow lightly. Toby chimed in after a while, and their topics switched from work to private stuff, discussing each other's everyday life. They did not seem to be aware of what John was doing in London, had never read about him in the newspapers or on the blog, it seemed, and if they had they did not mention it.

It was a pleasant change from his life in London, where way too many people always felt obligated to comment on the consulting detective and his sidekick when they met. So far it was a nice, unimportant night, exactly what John needed right now. He was feeling all right, yes, really. Not at all disappointed that Sherlock did not show up. Why would he?

Convincing himself of that took some effort, but was accomplished after some time and another ale. He followed the talk about how poor Henry still did not know about Martha cheating on him only half-heartedly. “I don't know,” Grace was saying when John turned his attention back to them, “but if my husband were cheating on me, I wouldn't want to be the last to know!”

“Mr Buchanan is not as unknowing as you all seem to assume,” a deep voice chimed in from behind. Surprised, John turned around to take a close look at its owner. It was incredible how well Sherlock blended in here with his simple-looking but expensive attire, hair ruffled by the sea breeze, face less pale than usual due to spending many hours in the summer sun.

“Oh, hi,” Toby stretched out a hand in a welcoming gesture, his freckled face lit by a heartfelt smile, “you must be John's friend.”

To John's surprise, Sherlock took Toby's hand and shook it politely. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, looking good, but for some reason that did not seem to impress Grace at all.

She shook his hand, as well, without the affection women usually showed when facing him, and introduced herself before asking, “What did you mean about Henry?”

“Apparently Mr Buchanan is well aware of his wife's multiple lovers,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly, a wry little smile on his lips. John tried to see him through Toby's or Grace's eyes for a minute. Did they only see the urbane air around him, his superior attitude, his confident face, or were they also able to see behind the façade, to see the unusual insecurity lingering behind his eyes? John doubted that. He himself was only barely able to see it, and he knew Sherlock better than anyone else.

“Never,” Toby exclaimed while Grace inquired, “Multiple?” Sherlock smiled, obviously having achieved exactly the reaction he'd been aiming at. John leaned back a little, enjoying the show. The other two were staring at him in disbelief. The noise level in the pub subsided considerably.

“Apparently he knows. You can tell it by the routes he chooses to take the dog for a walk.” When he only met unconvinced eyes, he explained at an incredible speed, “Mrs Buchanan always meets her lovers after lunch, but the days vary. She's very keen on not making it regular, wrongly believing it would be harder to be caught. Interestingly, Mr Buchanan's routes also vary. On days his wife sleeps with one of her three lovers, he takes the longer way through the mountains. When she's alone, he goes to the seaside immediately and is home again earlier. He knows, but doesn't want her to know.”

It was all quiet now around them. Clearly everyone in the room was trying to follow the deduction. “Three lovers?” a voice from the background asked feebly.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, turning around to face George, the village's only vet, directly, “Did you really think you were the only one?” The expression on George's face said yes, but George himself remained quiet, looking like he was hoping for the floor to open up and swallow him.

Toby started to look at Sherlock with awe, but Grace seemed to be shocked by his rudeness. She leaned back from him, which brought her closer to John. “Who are the other two?” Toby asked excitedly, but was instantly rebuked by his sister, who had been watching him from one of the other tables.

“Shut up, twit,” she growled, sobering him a good deal.

An uneasy quietness settled over the pub, and John noticed Sherlock's expression changing from smugness to uneasiness, only ever so slightly, but it was quite clear to John. He winced, feverishly thinking of a way to change the topic soon, to relieve Sherlock from the unwanted attention. When nothing elegant came to his mind and the silence deepened, he decided to take the blunt approach.

“So, this Achitlibuie Garden, what about it?” Yes, pretty blunt, but everyone seemed more than willing to leave the slippery topic and talk about one of their few tourist attractions, and after a while, business went on as usual.

Sherlock appeared to do his best to blend in, really listening to what people were saying, even asking a few semi-polite questions. John caught his glance a couple of times. He always gave him an approving smile, but couldn't help noticing how soon this small talk was straining Sherlock's nerves. After another ale he thought it best to call it a night and take his friend home.

The night was clear, and even though it was summer, the sea breeze was fresh and slightly chilling. The stars were shining, the moon not in the sky yet, and due to the absence of light pollution the Milky Way stretched beautifully above them. John thought back to a night in London, when Sherlock had completely surprised him by noticing the beauty of the night sky. Right now, he seemed to be far from noticing it. He was looking at the ground, lost in thoughts.

They wandered the small street in silence, Sherlock always ahead of John, until John said, “The last time I saw so many stars at once was in Afghanistan.”

Now Sherlock slowed down a little. “The starry sky is not an association many people would bring up with a war zone,” he mused.

John smiled at that. “Many people usually don't understand what the everyday life of a soldier is like out there, or just how incredibly impressive the night sky is over there.”

Sherlock slowed down even more, and John took the chance to take the lead. He left the street to go to the seashore, and for once, Sherlock willingly followed. “I don't like to think about your time in Afghanistan,” he stated. And before John had the chance ask him why, he was caught completely off-guard by Sherlock's next comment, “Show me the Plough! Theoretically I know that I have to take the Polar Star as a lead, but I never find it. Maybe it is because I always automatically delete the information on how to find it the second I get impatient.”

And so they ended up by the seaside, lying on their backs on the pebble beach, watching the stars until long after midnight. At first they had practised finding not only the Plough, but also Cassiopeia, the Pleiades, the Lyra and many more. Then John started telling Sherlock how his father had taught him the constellations, and finally started to recall as much as possible about the mythology behind them.

After initially complaining about dirt and little creepy-crawlies in his hair, Sherlock obviously had found it much more comfortable to rest his head on John's belly, eagerly following the explanations John gave about all the stuff Sherlock usually deleted instantly.

Looking back many years later, Sherlock would tell John regularly that he had been an idiot if he really had not foreseen what would happen only two days later. And John would always happily agree.


	4. Chapter 4

Day six started dramatically, and way too early. The summer sun was barely rising when John was woken by Sherlock calling him, his voice unusually high-pitched and panic-stricken.

He found Sherlock sitting on the floor in the living room, leaning against the sofa, trembling madly, his hands pressed against his temples. He was talking to himself feverishly, seemingly at the edge of hyperventilation. What the hell had happened? When John had turned in last night, Sherlock had been in an extraordinarily good mood, doing further astronomical research on John's laptop. But atypical depression came and went in cycles, John knew. Most likely it had only been a short relief.

In order not to alarm him more than necessary, John approached him directly from the front, making as much noise in the process as possible. “Sherlock?” he asked softly as he came closer. His shaking hands still pressed against his head, Sherlock looked up, stared at John with eyes so haunted it hurt John instantly.

“It won't stop, John. It's started again, and I don't know why. I want it to stop and I try to make it go away again but it won't STOP! And now I can't breathe and my heart beats too fast and it hurts and I can't think!”

John knelt down in front of him, his mind racing. Was there anything Sherlock could have taken to end up like that? But no, he was sure that Sherlock had not consumed any kind of drugs while being here with him, and it seemed highly unlikely that he could have purchased any out here in Achitlibuie. 

“I don't know why it started again,” Sherlock went on, and John noticed the sweat that was forming on his forehead. Not good. “Last night everything was fine and now it's trying to pull me down again and everything is bad and dark and my legs are heavy and even last night doesn't seem to be right any longer and I WANT IT TO STOP!”

With that, he started hammering his hands against his temples, so hard that without thinking John reached out and grabbed his hands forcefully. “Sherlock,” he said, louder now, not knowing what else to say. Sherlock just stared back, breathing way to fast, trembling badly. At least, John understood now what was wrong. Panic disorders often occurred together with atypical depression. A knowledge that did not seem to help Sherlock right now.

Still holding Sherlock's shaking hands in his, John leaned closer. “It's all right, Sherlock, calm down.” He was half expecting him to snap back at him. Instead, Sherlock closed his eyes, leaning forward until their foreheads touched. Instinctively, John reached out with one of his hands, the other one still covering Sherlock's, and placed it gently on his friend's neck.

“I can't stop hyperventilating,” Sherlock gasped, “why can't I stop hyperventilating? I never hyperventilate.” John felt Sherlock's sweat dripping onto his own face. It was cold. He moved his hand a bit down the neck and felt Sherlock's pulse. Much too fast.

“You're having a panic attack,” he stated as neutrally as possible, while his mind raced along everything that had happened yesterday. He had no idea what could have triggered it.

“I DON'T HAVE PANIC ATTACKS,” Sherlock shouted, but still did not move away from John's touch.

“Well, you do now.” John let his hand slide down Sherlock's back, supporting him. He still did not like the shallow breathing, but Sherlock was more concerned with another aspect of the attack right now.

“My heart rate is 186, John,” he pressed out, “and I can't will it down. It hurts, and I can't bring it down.” There was so much fear in Sherlock's statement that John's stomach clenched painfully.

“There's nothing wrong with your heart,” he explained in his best doctor voice. “It will stop beating that hard as soon as you relax a little. And your body is perfectly capable of dealing with it for a while. Trust me.”

For some time they both concentrated completely on breathing, John inhaling and exhaling louder than usual, Sherlock trying to fall into pace with him. It took him some time to achieve it, and even more before he dared to move his head away from John's.

John watched his head fall heavily against the sofa, and only now could he see the dark circles underneath his eyes. “You did not sleep last night, did you?” he asked.

To his surprise, Sherlock looked away sheepishly. “I fell into a doze, but only long enough to have a nightmare.” The trigger?

“What about?”

That got him a resentful glare. “What do you want me to do,” Sherlock snapped angrily, “talk about my bad dream and then everything will be fine?” But John had dealt with depressed Sherlock long enough now not to be impressed by him.

“I just want to know what goes on inside your head at the moment,” he stated calmly, and when he saw Sherlock opening his mouth again, he quickly added, “because I care for you!”

Sherlock grunted at him, but did not comment otherwise. After some time, he said quietly, “It's the same dream every night. It's neither brutal nor shocking, really. To you it must appear to be the most boring nightmare ever!” When John patiently waited without saying a word, he continued reluctantly, “It's my mind palace. It … deteriorates. Then I wake up. That's it, nothing spectacular.”

Considering the fact that the mind palace probably was Sherlock's one refuge in the world, the only place he had found consolation in during his hiatus, John would disagree, but knew that it wouldn't help now. “Did that dream start when your depression started?”

The word “depression” made Sherlock look at him sharply. John hold his glance without wavering, and finally Sherlock nodded. “I had expected it to hold off tonight,” he admitted, sounding lost.

“Because you had felt better?” John explored carefully and was slightly surprised when Sherlock nodded again.

“Watching the stars with you had been … enjoyable,” he said, and John noticed how his breathing had finally calmed down again.

“I was happy last night, and that doesn't happen often,” Sherlock went on quietly, whispering, still not breaking eye-contact. “Why hasn't that been enough to chase the depression away?”

John looked back at him sadly. “We are not talking about being a bit blue, Sherlock,” he tried to explain. “We are talking about an atypical depression. It's a disease, not a simple annoyance. Your mental state has already improved, but you need to be more patient.”

At that, Sherlock's face fell significantly. “What?” John prompted instantly, not understanding what was happening inside Sherlock's mind once more. What he did understand, though, was that Sherlock's breathing was picking up pace again. Without giving it much thought, he pulled him close, his hand cupping Sherlock's face, breathing regularly for Sherlock's sake.

“Why does the thought of being patient scare you so much?” he implored when the acute attack seemed to be over again.

“I'm not scared,” Sherlock spit. Not believing him at all, John waited, and really, just like before, after a while Sherlock said feebly, ”I can't deduce it!”

“What?”

“How long you will remain patient before you will leave.”

“How long… what? Me?” For a second, John was taken by surprise, then he felt anger swelling up inside him, mixed with pity and … well, love, of course, but he was not willing to explore that one right now. “Now, genius,” he said, shaking his head slightly, “why do you think I packed my warm jumpers?” He let Sherlock ponder it for a moment, and then he made it clear, just in case, “I'm not going anywhere, no matter how long it takes. Trust me.”

To his surprise, Sherlock let his head drop, touching John's forehead once more. He did not say anything for a long while. “Promise?” he asked after some time, raising his head enough to look into John's eyes.

“Of course,” John answered quickly, ignoring the lump that was forming in his throat.

“Good,” Sherlock sighed, a very, very small smile touching the edges of his mouth.

Only then did John discover that one of his hands was still entwined with Sherlock's. He squeezed it gently, then got to his feet, dragging Sherlock along in the process. “Come on,” he stated, “six o'clock is way too early to be awake!” Sherlock followed him to the bedroom.

“What now, are you planning to tuck me in?” he tried to huff, but looked so hopeful that John had to smile.

***

John woke up again later that day, the cottage empty once more. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. Another post-it was attached to John's cup. “Thank you” it read. He felt himself smile. Lord, he really should try harder to tell himself that nothing would ever happen between the two of them. Yes, they had moved distinctively closer, but hoping for more than friendship was really stupid.

He needed to repeat that inside his head several times over the day. The fact that the memory of Sherlock's head resting on his belly at the seaside sneaked into his thoughts quite regularly did not help. Neither did the memory of their foreheads touching. Or the fact that Sherlock's biggest fear was not losing his mind, but losing John.

Knowing that Sherlock preferred ranging the mountains, he stayed at the seaside to give them both some space. Of course, that did not help to stop thinking about last night. Nothing will happen between us, he repeatedly told himself, nothing will happen. No matter how much you might want him. It. Want it. Well, if he really believed that, why did he scan the mountains regularly to see if he could make out Sherlock's elegant shape?

He finally had to acknowledge he probably needed to change his point of view when he belatedly realised that last night he had been patting Sherlock's head occasionally while observing the stars. An action Sherlock had silently accepted, if not enjoyed.

John continued to stare at the ocean for a long while, still realistic enough not to let go of “Nothing will happen” completely. But not ruling out something could happen altogether, either.

***

When John entered the already familiar pub later that day, the atmosphere was different than before. He instantly thought it was because of Sherlock's appearance yesterday, but then he felt that something more profoundly was wrong. “I've just googled you,” Toby greeted him, smart-phone in his hand, looking serious for the first time. “You and Sherlock are doing this crime solving thing.”

“Well, yes,” John answered, looking around more closely. The room was unnaturally quiet, people talking in hushed voices if they talked at all. It was more crowded than usual, too. That couldn't still be a reaction to Sherlock being completely himself yesterday. “What happened?” 

“Maria. She's dead.” Toby shook his head while speaking, as if he could not believe it. “Found at Thor Bridge, shot to her head.” John looked at him in sympathy. It was not only about the death of a nice person everybody knew, he realized. It was also about the alarming question which of the other people around had done it. 

He frowned at the thought. “Do the police have any idea who ...”

“Grace,” David chimed in, pale and looking lost, “They think it was Grace.” Now that was a surprise.

“Why do they think so?”, John wondered, not expecting any answer. The murder must have happened that day, so the investigation would be currently running and …

“There was enough evidence pointing at her” Toby explained, while John sat down, reaching for the beer that had been instantly served without being ordered. Noticing John's inquiring look he explained, “My sister is in charge of the case. Said there was really clear proof.”

“But Grace, that's ...” David was at a loss of words.

“Nobody can believe it” Toby explained. “I mean, Grace is such a nice person. Neil, on the other hand ...” He did not finish the sentence, but a few of the other people nodded in agreement. Marlow raised his pint in a silent toast.

“Look, John,” Toby went on, lowering his voice a bit, “I've read your blog. Don't you think you can make your friend take a look at the matter? I mean, the way he figured out about Henry and Martha, that was brilliant.”

John frowned at the very thought. “I don't know,” he said, hating how their faces fell instantly. “Sherlock's not been well lately,” he tried to explain. “That's why we're here in the first place. Besides ...”

“Besides, the proof is clear,” a familiar baritone chimed in, drawing everybody's attention to its owner. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to make a dramatic appearance even in the smallest pub.

Despite the grave mood John couldn't help noticing how much Sherlock looked like himself again, upright and confident and somehow glowing and posh enough to be noticed in a place like that, even in his casual outfit and boots. Damn, he did look breathtaking. John took a mouthful of beer just to hide his face for a second.

When John put the glass down, Sherlock had already started to explain the evidence to everyone. He must have talked to Maggie before coming here, John thought. So he felt up to dealing with a case already. John only hoped Sherlock was right about that.

Victim found dead on bridge, Sherlock explained, shot to left side of her head, suicide not an option as victim was right-handed. Text on victims mobile shows that Dunbar made an appointment with victim at estimated time of offence at said bridge. Bullet in victim's head matches gun found in Dunbar's wardrobe. Motive: Dunbar is said to have had an affair with victim's husband. Simple. Boring.

John inwardly flinched at the reactions Sherlock's explanation would evoke. Sputtering your thoughts at an impersonal crime scene in London might be a bit inconsiderate. Doing so in a pub filled with people who had known the victim, the suspect and everyone else involved personally for years was brave at best.

But the people of Achitlibuie were generous and already surprisingly used to his behaviour, and some of them were surely still hoping Sherlock might help poor Grace after all. And so their reactions were more forgiving than usual, more patient than John had expected them to be. 

Anyway, John noticed how sensitive Sherlock reacted to their politely shown rejection, a subtle hint the atypical depression was still there. He had quite some way to go before he would be his old, arrogant and unimpressed self. With every inquiring question he stiffened a bit more. His movements became slower, his eyes grew darker, no matter how much he tried to conceal it.

After a while, the good people of Achitlibuie left John and Sherlock alone, quietly muttering to each other, throwing furtive glances at them from time to time that only seemed to irritate Sherlock even more. Finally John's protectiveness took over, and he faked a yawn to get them out of the pub and into the still fragile peace of being alone with each other.

“So,” Sherlock said as they walked down the dark, quiet coastal street, with only the ocean to be heard and no other soul in sight, “Grace is the one who always touches you when you meet?” How did he … John eyed him curiously. Of course Sherlock knew who Grace was for he had met her at the pub the other night. This statement implied that Sherlock had had a closer watch on him during those last few days than John had been aware of. Did it also imply Sherlock minded Grace touching John? Weird.

“Um, yes,” John finally answered, wondering how much of his curiosity would show up in his voice, but Sherlock seemed to be completely unaware of it. “Hard to believe she's a cold blooded murderer,” John went on, still wondering if he had imagined that jealous twinge to Sherlock's voice.

“Not cold-blooded,” Sherlock said, unusually softly, “rather the opposite. A murderer out of passion and love.”

“You, too, believe she's having an affair with Neil?” John wondered. For some reason it was the wrong thing to say.

“Do you rather want to believe she was only waiting for you to take her away from this godforsaken town?” Sherlock snapped back, his sharpness cutting deep into John's already irritated mood. 

“I ... what? No,” he corrected, wondering what this was about now. “If I were interested, I would have flirted back, don't you think? It's just that this whole concept ...” He stopped in mid-sentence, not sure how to explain himself. How could people seriously believe that killing someone to win someone else’s love would work? How could a love that started with a murder ever lead to something lasting and good? 

“I just don't get why people kill for love,” he said.

“Well,” Sherlock answered to John's surprise, “I do.” That left John quiet for a moment. Before he could decide how to reply, Sherlock went on, still looking at the moonlit ocean instead of John, “I would not kill to put a rival away, but if someone hurt you I wouldn't think twice before killing him.” That was … what? Wait. Did he just …

Obviously without realising what he had just said, Sherlock went on, “But something is wrong about this case. I just can't put my finger on it. My mind is still too slow.” John fell out of pace, now a few steps behind Sherlock, feeling suddenly light-headed. He hadn't really just said … But he had. He had, hadn't he? 

Had Sherlock just said that he loved him?

Yes, he had. Jesus. No wonder he was so grumpy when it came to Grace. But why did he not say something? Well, he just did. He just did not know he had. He must have deduced John's feelings long ago. Why had he not … If he was content to leave things the way they were … But why would he, if he knew the feeling was mutual? Or did he not know? Impossible.

The distance between them increased while John's steps got slower and slower, deeply lost in his strange thoughts so that he missed the fact that Sherlock was still talking about the murder. Why, why, why? And what should Sherlock mention it now? Oh Lord, how could life become so confusing from one second to the other?

“John?” 

He looked at Sherlock guiltily, not having the slightest idea what his friend had said, “Um?”

“I said I'm tired.” Oh. John gave Sherlock a second look, the nearly full moon illuminating his friend's face in an extremely attractive manner. He swallowed, trying not to think of how romantic that could … No, don't. Damn!

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked, quite uncharacteristically.

John looked at him, feeling caught. No, you sod, I'm not, because you just have told me you're in love with me and then you went on with business as usual.

“Yes, sure,” he lied. “I just … I need … I'd like to go for another walk,” he stuttered on, probably making a fool of himself.

If Sherlock agreed with that notion he did not let it show. “Good” he answered, not sounding hurt, and without another word turned around and entered the cottage, leaving John alone with tens of millions of thoughts.

For a while, John wandered along the moonlit coast, absolutely unable to make head nor tail of his own thoughts. So Sherlock was in love with him. That should be fine, especially as John was in love with Sherlock, too. But … But! He had spent such a long time suppressing that love to keep their precious friendship safe that he was completely unable to decide what to do now.

After all, the depression was still lingering very prominently behind Sherlock's eyes, and the last thing John wanted was to force him into something he would not even consider when at the top of his mental health. But then ...

But then, the prospect of really being with him was oh so tempting. To be finally able to hold him and kiss him and … well, do all the other things lovers do … The thought alone made his heart beat faster in anticipation. And made other parts of his body react as well. Surprisingly fast, for a man who always considered himself straight. But then …

But then, Sherlock was still depressed, his guards probably much lower than usually. And he had not confessed his love for John, but rather accidentally blurted it out unknowingly.

John's mind was spinning in circles, not getting anywhere. This was getting ridiculous. He took a deep breath, grabbed this phone and called the only person he trusted enough to talk about it.

“John, love, what can I do for you?” he heard Mrs Hudson's voice. He hoped he hadn't woken her, not sure how late it was anyway.

“Mrs Hudson, I ...” He was not exactly sure of how to go on.

“Is something wrong with Sherlock?” she asked, sounding concerned.

“No, no, don't worry. It's just … he loves me.” Now it was out.

“Yes, I know. Has he finally told you?” 

What? WHAT? He took in a deep breath. “Well, more or less. I don't think he realised what he said. How did you know?”

“Oh,” he heard her delighted voice, “he told me so only yesterday. Was quite confused about it when he found out.”

Oh. Now that shed some light on his strangely inconsistent behaviour. Still … 

“You love him too, don't you?” Mrs Hudson went on, not really sounding like that was a question.

“Yes,” John heard himself say. Sounded strange. Felt good. “I just don't know what to do with it now,” he admitted, just in case she hadn't figured that one out herself, too. 

“Oh dear, why do the two of you always have to make everything so complicated?” she tutted. “No matter how messed up Sherlock's funny mind might be, it all comes down to two simple facts: he loves you, and you love him. So what's the problem?” Yes, if you looked at it like that it really sounded simple.

“Why don't you just spend some time together at this lovely place and let nature do its thing?”

“Yes,” he agreed ruefully, “we really should. Thank you for ...”

“Just make sure you are both protected and ...” “YES, thank you, Mrs Hudson!” John nearly yelled and hung up on her, really, really not wanting to find out where else the conversation would have led them.

***

The cottage was dark and quiet when John finally came in. After the phone call he had spent one more hour on the beach, sitting on one of the big stones, watching the moon and the stars and wondering when his life had switched from Charles Dickens to Jane Austen.

He had tried to get his mind to rest, but it hadn't worked. So he sneaked into the bedroom, coming to a halt in front of Sherlock's bed. The moon was shining into the room, illuminating Sherlock softly. John noticed how his face was tense again, fists clenched into the duvet, a slight frown on his forehead. Must be the mind palace dream again.

He carefully sat down on the edge of the bed, and reached out for Sherlock once more. The way he touched him now had changed, John realised. It was softer. More loving. Sherlock stirred at the touch, but did not wake up, his face still caught in a sad frown. 

“What am I going to do with us now?” John whispered softly. He watched his fingers moving through Sherlock's hair, watched his thumb carefully stroke Sherlock's temples. “I really wish I knew what's going on inside there, you know?” He watched Sherlock's face relax more and more, his hands slowly letting go of the duvet. Then he mumbled something unintelligible, still sleeping deeply. It could have been anything. It could have been “John”.

Sighing, John finally got up and went to bed. His mind would not stop spinning though, and for a long time he was caught in this unpleasant semi-sleeping state where your body is too awake to fall asleep but your mind is already too sleepy to get up again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, if the mentioning of suicide is a trigger for you, please don't read this chapter.

The next morning, it was their seventh day in Achitlibuie. John woke up to find the living room empty once more, and part of him was happy to get some time to find his way back to his normal, confident self.

At first he thought Sherlock had left without leaving any kind of note, but then he found it. On the kitchen counter there was a thermos jug, filled with hot coffee. Next to it, there was a box of breakfast biscuits with an attached post-it. It read, “I made breakfast”. One of the bars was missing, its wrapping placed distinctively next to the coffee mug. 

John smiled a little, poured himself some coffee and took a biscuit. So, what to make of this? Was it just another proof that Sherlock was getting better and felt sorry for the moods he had had? Or was it something more affectionate? Well, better not be getting his hopes up.

But then, why not?

***

The place on the shore where Sherlock was sitting  
(mica schist, 5.2 feet long)  
provided not only an idyllic view of the sea, but, and that was more important, was part of John's usual midday-walk.  
(judging from the footprints he'd been sitting here last night for about 50 minutes, why?, will pass by today, I'm visible for him from half a mile before he reaches me, leaves him the opportunity to turn around without being noticed if he does not want my company now. Hope he won't turn around)  
Still, the salty wind and sunny sky and the sound of the ocean provided a calmness to his mind Sherlock was not used to.  
(pleasant, need to tell John that finding this place was genius)

His thoughts wandered to John, as they did rather often during the last few days. He found it unbelievably hard to control his thoughts,   
(thinking about his kind face, his warm hands against my head, eyes shining with compassion)  
(did all his girlfriends find John's eyes that breathtaking? Why think about former girlfriends now? Unpleasant train of thought. Stop it)  
(will Grace Dunbar be new girlfriend?)  
(even more unpleasant, stop stop stop)  
especially as he held no hope whatsoever that he himself would ever play another part in John's life than as his friend.  
(given that friendship survives current mood crisis. Says he will be patient, but can he really? Maybe, as he's a genius when it comes to handle me. Need to stop hurting him. Need to stop worrying him. Need to stop)  
After contemplating fears of loss and loneliness for another while, Sherlock managed to lead his trail of thought to the more delightful aspects of John  
(imagine to run fingers through his hair, imagine him liking it, then imagine letting fingers run across his face. Would be warm and soft, would make him smile. Would touch his lips with my thumb, his mouth would open with pleasure)  
(someone feeling pleasure because of me? Unlikely. Unheard of.)  
(But in my mind John will. He will open his mouth with pleasure, will move closer to me, I will lean down a bit, our mouths will meet, he will become more hungry after a while, grab my hair, press himself against me, won't let me go, never letting me go).

While the larger part of his mind needed all the concentration it could get to imagine someone really being attracted to him, a smaller part of his brain wondered about how promptly his penis reacted to these chaste fantasies. A seldom, yet pleasant experience.

It made the appearance of Marlow Gates even more annoying. As the stout man came closer  
(Neil Gibson's secretary, between 32 and 36 years old, 5ft10 tall, six pounds excess weight, used to be more, has lost at least 20 pounds over the last three years, red eyes, dark circles underneath them, yellow stain on jumper)  
Sherlock clearly showed his annoyance  
(barely looking at him, frowning, turning down corners of mouth, pointedly looking away)  
which Gates seemed to miss completely.  
(annoying!!)  
He also missed the nature of the thoughts Sherlock had been lost in.  
(not annoying, grateful for that, could have been very embarrassing!)

“You are Sherlock Holmes,” Gates said as he reached him.  
(really? brilliant deduction)  
Sherlock made a non-committal sound  
(no need to encourage him)  
and waited for him to go on.  
(expression on his face shows that he is missing the fact that he's not wanted, will go on with voicing his request anyway, better get this over with as fast as possible)

“I'm Marlow,” he explained, stretching out his hand for a proper introduction  
(boring, ignore hand)

“You want me to investigate the Gibson murder,” Sherlock stated,  
(apparently)  
secretly enjoying the mild surprise on Gates' face. “Tell me,” he went on,  
(easy deductions, really)  
“what crossed your mind during breakfast that made you leave your scrambled eggs on the dining table and search for me in such a hurry?”  
(surprised, looking at me in awe, idiot)

“Well,” Gates started to explain, “I'm Neil's secretary and ...”  
(about to give unnecessary explanation, must cut it short)

“... you've been working for him for three years now, disagree with the way he treated his wife and plan on resigning now.”  
(look on his face means all three statements were correct)

“How did you ...”

“Please, Mr Gates”;  
(excessive use of first names is irritating)  
“... you've read the blog. Let us assume that I am indeed as marvellous as depicted there by Dr. Watson  
(thinking of John causes body to react immediately, need to control that)  
and proceed with what you really wanted to ask me.”  
(and having been told some of these facts by the local police officer is not cheating)

“Yes, yes, I ...”  
(this could take some time)  
“I've heard that the police think that Grace did it, but I tell you ...”  
(nervous, emotionally attached, to Grace?)  
“... she's such a lovely person, she would never be able to do anything like that.”  
(no, flush does not increase when talking about her, someone else then)  
“But if you had seen the way Neil was bashing his wife, day after day ...“  
(ah, emotionally attached to Maria apparently, that also explains signs of grief in his features)  
“... but she stayed by his side, no matter how hard he was trying to shake her off.”  
(unrequited love, would be more sad and less bitter if they had had a love affair)  
“Maria was such a … She was from Brazil, you know? Exotic and passionate and full of temper ...”  
(or possibly a short but finite sexual relationship? Why not ask him?)

“Mr Gates,” Sherlock cut him off, “have you had relations with Mrs Gibson?” Marlow stared at him with uncertainty.  
(idiot)

“Um, of course, we've seen each other regularly when I was working. I've been working rather closely with Neil.”  
(big idiot, let's rephrase)

“I meant,” Sherlock explained impatiently, “has fornication ever been commenced between the two of you?”

“What?”  
(oh no)

“Have you ever copulated?”  
(Do you need me to draw a picture?)

“He wants to know if you had sex with Maria”, he suddenly heard John's voice from behind.  
(amused, smiling, warm, approaching quickly, no reserve why not? Force down bodily reaction to John saying “sex”!)

“Oh”, Gates sighed with relief. “No, no, never. I would have … But no.”  
(why are people always happier when John explains things? Need to ask him some day)

“Why not?” Sherlock asked Gates, trying to read him and John at the same time.  
(Gates: honest, regretful, had been in love, boring  
John: hair looks nice in the sunshine, should I tell him? No, might irritate him, looks at me closely, concerned about me, searching for signs of depression or irritation, had the breakfast biscuits, is in a good mood, current shirt matches eye colour, love his face when he tries to apologise on my behalf without words, looks good)

“She wouldn't hear about it. She was so deeply in love with Neil even after all these years, nothing could have changed it.”  
(still in love with her, would I be in love with John after his death? Yes, of course, frightening idea, thought of John's death is even more frightening, don't go there)  
Sherlock shot a hidden glance at John  
(relaxed facial expressions show he's unaware of my thoughts, good! hair slightly ruffled by wind, touched by the concept of loving someone after their death, easy for clients to appeal to his romantic side, he'll be happy if I investigate)  
and sighed in a scarcely audible voice, “Mr Gates, I am sure that the case of Mrs Gibson's passing will be unavoidable for me. Be assured that I will take your statements into consideration.”  
(surprise on John's face, thought I would send Gates away with another insult. So did I. But then, I was also surprised when I felt the wish to prepare breakfast for John)  
(can't make up for how I hurt him at home with breakfast)  
(need to think about it)  
(apology?)  
(explanation!)  
(will be painful, but will keep John by my side for now)

***

When Marlow finally stumbled away after thanking Sherlock again and again, John sat down on the rock next to him and watched him thoughtfully. “That was … almost nice of you,” he stated, trying to sound not too surprised. He waited for a response, but none came. Instead, Sherlock was staring thoughtfully at the ocean, frowning once more, looking like he was completely lost inside his mind again.

John waited for a while, taking this chance to inspect Sherlock closer without being noticed. There were still dark circles underneath his eyes, less obvious than a few days ago but still there, and a certain tenseness to his body that had been there ever since this depression started. Whatever his reasons were for getting involved with the Gibson case, John hoped that he was really up to it already.

“I wanted to hurt you,” Sherlock said all of sudden, sounding calm, still watching the waves crashing on the shore, “back home, when Lestrade was around.” Being at a complete loss of words, John just gazed at him.

Sherlock went on with incredible speed, like spitting out a very clever deduction: “I've thought of what you've told me about your adolescence, linked it with my most gruesome childhood memory and came up with the three most wounding remarks possible. I knew how much it would hurt you before I said it. If my mind hadn't been that slow I would have referred to your mother first and then mentioned your father to inflict even deeper pain.”

Jesus. John took a deep breath. He opened his mouth to speak and closed it again when he realised he still had no idea what to say. “Sensitivity to rejection is one symptom of atypical depression,” he said then, sounding lame even in his own ears.

Of course Sherlock shook his head, “That does not make up for it afterwards.”

“No, it does not,” John agreed quietly. No need to lie to him at that point. They sat next to each other in silence, and John spent some time debating with himself whether or not he should simply take Sherlock in his arms. Then something else crossed his mind.

“What was that about your most gruesome childhood memory?” he asked, and Sherlock seemed to freeze.

“Stop doing that, John”, he hissed.

“Stop what?”

“Stop caring for me when I'm being an absolute arse.”

“Yeah, well,” John said, not even trying to hide the sad smile on his face, “I'll tell you what. You stop caring for me first, and then I'll see what I can do about not caring for you any longer. Deal?”

For a moment Sherlock just stared at him with a bewildered expression on his face. Then something changed, something John couldn't quite put his finger on, and Sherlock's entire body seemed to sag. He closed his eyes for a while, resting his head in his hands, looking incredibly young all of a sudden.

“I was six,” he finally said, so soft John could barely hear him without leaning closer. “The preceding months had been hard. My parents had been fighting constantly, mostly over the fact that my mother was having a love affair with one of our neighbours.”

John watched the bitterness flickering over his friends face as he went on, “I was too young to understand. All I knew was that sometimes she smelled like Mr Benson, but when everything was all right she smelled like father. One day the fighting ended, and everything seemed to be fine again. Better than fine.” His gaze went back to the waves, avoiding John's eyes.

“That day was probably the happiest of my life so far. We spent it at our park, Mummy, father, Mycroft and me. Mummy and father were kissing and laughing, and I was so … content.” For a while a sad smile played around his lips, then his eyes went darker than John had ever seen them. 

“At dinner I must have been smiling happily the entire time, because father playfully asked me why I was grinning like a little Cheshire cat. I told him it was because he and Mummy were so happy even though she smelled like Mr Benson again.” The memory alone made his cheeks flush, and John tried to picture little six year old Sherlock sitting in the middle of hell breaking lose without even getting the point. His stomach clenched in empathy. 

“Father accused Mummy of doing 'it' again, Mummy accused me of lying and called me a bastard and Mycroft was ordered to see me to my room. Up there he explained it to me as well as he could, and then we heard father playing the violin in his office. Not the angry tunes he usually played after fighting with Mummy. The soft, sad ones he usually played before he stopped talking for days and wouldn't get dressed or leave his room.”

Sherlock drew a quivering breath, and John dropped his guard completely. He slid his arm around Sherlock's shoulder and pulled him in to him. When Sherlock leaned against him instead of moving away his concern grew even deeper. He was no longer sure he wanted to hear how the story ended.

“I sneaked down to his office and listened to his music for what seemed to be a lifetime. When he finally noticed me, he stopped playing and cuddled me onto his lap. Told me it hadn't been my fault. Told me not to feel guilty about seeing those things when actually the people doing those things should feel guilty. He kissed me, gave me a long embrace and sent me back to Mycroft. I had barely reached my room when the gunshot rang through the house.”

John closed his eyes for a moment and could barely resist the urge to place a consoling kiss on those curls. He had always guessed that Sherlock's childhood might have contained dark moments, but that … 

“I was the first to find him, but everyone else seemed to appear only seconds after me. Mummy was screaming and screaming. I ...” His voice broke a little, his breath quivering even more. “I still remember all the blood, on the curtains and the walls and the ground, and the weapon next to his hand. He ...”

Sherlock stopped his horrid tale, clearly struggling for composure. John briefly wondered if he was aware of the fact that he had grabbed John's hand during his tale and was clenching it desperately now. John started stroking his arm with the other, holding him tight.

“Mummy stopped talking to me that day, for more than a year,” Sherlock finally concluded, his voice steadier now, sounding like a lifetime of bitterness was seeping into it. “When she started again, I really could have done without the things she said to me regularly. When I moved out at the age of eighteen I wanted to take his violin with me, the one he had willed to me. She smashed it against a pillar in front of my eyes.”

He fell silent again, still clinging to John's hand, still leaning against him. They sat like that for a long, long time. “I miss him,” Sherlock whispered. “And I try to believe in what he told me, but sometimes I just can't.”

When John finally did place that consoling kiss on Sherlock's head he knew it had been exactly the right thing to do.

***

“We haven't dealt with too many murders yet,” Police Sergeant Maggie Coventry explained later with a remorseful flush on her cheeks. She was watching Sherlock and John looking around the tiny morgue at the tiny police station in Ullapool. Sherlock gave her an ironic little smile in return. “This is the first one ever,” he stated in John's direction. “See, someone couldn't even fill in the forms correctly.”

John glanced back at Maggie apologetically. They had left their coastal hiding place about two hours before, made Toby lend them his old Triumph and drove all the way to Ullapool in silence. Sherlock had neither explained why he was suddenly willing to look at the evidence of the Gibson murder nor had he commented on what he was hoping to find.

But it was good to see him working again, appearing to be closer to his confident and smug self than he had been in weeks. Was it because talking about his father's death had lifted some weight from his soul? After all, talking therapies have helped in cases of atypical depression. Or was it just mood reactivity, a short lift of his dark temper as was normal for many people with atypical depression?

No matter what, he looked better, and he seemed about to move closer to John than before. A casual bystander would not have noticed the fact that he was looking at John more often than normal, or that he was drifting in and out of John's personal space constantly. A casual bystander would not have noticed that his smile finally reached his eyes again.

“John, when you are done adoring me, hand me the eye-witness accounts.” They shared a quick glance, and John shook his head, trying to grin not too broadly. Sherlock seemed to do the same. He wasn't flirting. Was he?

“I thought there were no witnesses to the murder?” John asked when he grabbed the papers.

“These are the accounts of the people who found Maria afterwards,” Maggie leapt in to explain when it became clear that Sherlock was ignoring him. “According to the tenants of the Gibson's estate, they heard a gunshot shortly after nine o'clock. It seemed to come from the backyard of the estate. A group of three went looking, Marlow, Jackson and Emma. They found poor Maria on the mouth of Thor Bridge.”

Maggie closed her eyes for a second, and John could not help but feel compassion for her. When she had decided to become a police officer in Wester Ross, she had surely never expected a murder investigation.

“Where was Mrs Dunbar at that time?” Sherlock chimed in, suddenly standing so close behind John that he could feel his breath in his neck. A rather enjoyable position, John had to admit. He did his best to keep himself from shivering with pleasure, not sure if he wanted it to go undetected by Sherlock or not.

“Oh, she came back to the bridge shortly afterwards.”

Now John's attention focused completely on Maggie, “Back?”

The Police Sergeant shifted uneasy. “Yes, back. Apparently she had met Maria at Thor Bridge at nine but left before the gunshot.”

“Tell me again, why do you all believe Mrs Dunbar is innocent?” Sherlock inquired sharply, looking at both of them. At that, Maggie shook her head with certainty. 

“Mr Holmes, no matter what I believe personally, I have actually taken Grace into investigative custody. No matter how unlikely it is for Grace to be a murderer, I am able to see that the evidence leaves little hope for her innocence. Grace had sent Maria a text with their appointment. It was still open on the display of her mobile when we found her. And the murder weapon was found inside Grace's wardrobe.”

John had to admire her for standing up for herself like that. He knew she had read the blog and knew whom she was dealing with. Still, she raised her chin in defiance, crossed her arms, locked eyes with Sherlock and showed no intention of being the first to look away. He briefly wondered how often he looked exactly the same.

To his surprise, Sherlock suddenly smiled. “Thank you for showing us what you've got, Sergeant Coventry,” he said swiftly and hurried out of the little police station without any explanation. John apologised to her half-heartedly for the sudden rush and followed Sherlock out.

“What was that about?” he wondered, and nearly bumped into Sherlock when he stopped abruptly.

“The gun in the wardrobe,” he said mysteriously, “I need to think about that.” They drove back in silence again. It was probably a good thing that they passed only three other cars on their way to Achitlibuie, for Sherlock's mind clearly was not on the road.

“The text on the mobile,” he said after they had returned the car, “I need to think about that one too.” John had barely opened the cottage door when Sherlock flopped down onto the sofa, steepled his hands under his chin and was gone.

That night, John did not go to the pub. Instead he lingered around Sherlock unobtrusively, – not that he would have noticed him in his current state anyway – wrote a mail to Mrs Hudson and continued updating his blog with the harbour case. Every now and then he stole a glance at Sherlock, and the gruesome story he had been told found a way back into his thoughts again and again. 

He knew perfectly well that tonight he would not be in for a deep, restful sleep once more.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now, you've probably realised that the case is loosely based on "The Problem Of Thor Bridge". In this chapter, some lines of the dialogue are taken directly from that story. Fantastic how it works without people noticing it immediately.

(Dream. Same every night. Seventeen times in a row now. Inside the mind palace. Normally safe haven, glowing and warm. Now getting dark and cold. Decay everywhere. Pictures crooked. Wallpaper torn down. Glow of walls fading. A chair knocked over. Dust everywhere.

The normally welcomed quietness turning into loneliness somehow. Darkness creeping in. Light and life draining away. Every room is the same. Empty and wasting. The terror of losing the only refuge in the world is swelling up inside. 

The lab: shattered glass on the floor. Chemicals spattered. Walls stained. Blood? Samples thrown onto the floor. Equipment broken, dead. Elements on periodic table in disorder. Portraits of scientists looking in disdain. Some faces twisted in hatred.

The library: some shelves on the ground. Most of them still standing, but books pulled out. scattered on the floor. Backs torn off. covers painted over. Carpet ripped up. Chairs shattered. Tables scratched. The smell of old books gone.

The stairs in the hall: banister broken. Carpet torn off every step. Chandelier half ripped off the ceiling. Broken in so many places. Stale air gets thicker and thicker with every step. Like fluid. Filling the lungs. Slowing you down. Breathing is hard. 

Last room to fade into darkness is always John's. Door half-open. Doorstep creaking. Sun still shining through windows, but setting already. Shadows growing longer. Warmth fading too. Walls dimming. Getting cold and lonesome and sad. No hope of ever being warm again. 

Looking around, the sadness increases. Everything's wrong. The bottomless boxes including every little detail about John sealed. The comfortable armchairs soaked with cold water. The fluffy blanket gone. Twilight changing to darkness. 

Liquid air filling the room, cold and wet. Filling the lungs with unhappiness. Drenching the body. Drenching the soul.

Tears sting. Heart hurts. Lungs hurt. Hope is lost. Tears are falling.

But then ...

But then, a gleam. A spark of light in a corner. Next to the books John likes. Fluid air turns warm. Walls slowly brighten up again. A gentle breeze washing away the dust, drying the armchairs, magically repairing the carpet. A gentle breeze of light, dry air. In the air a whispering, soft and golden. John's voice.

Breathing is easy again. The sealed boxes springing open again, the beauty of this room restored. So wonderful that more tears fall, but happiness and hope and warmth are flooding the body now. 

Sherlock sighed deeply in his sleep, rolling onto his side, once more unaware of John sitting by his side, chasing away the bad dream only by the gentle touch of his hands and a few hushed words.

***

On the morning of the eighth day, the atmosphere somehow had changed. To his surprise, John found Sherlock at the kitchen counter, busy with the coffee again. “Ah, John,” he greeted him, “there you are.” He held a filled mug in John's general direction, smiling slightly. Forcing him to come nearer to get the coffee. Wishful thinking? John shrugged the question off, happily leaning against the counter next to Sherlock, sipping his coffee.

“What about a more nutritious breakfast than yesterday?” Sherlock asked innocently, looking at John.

It was more than obvious what he was up to, and so John cut it short, “Brilliant idea. How would you like your eggs?”

For a second, Sherlock appeared to be mildly surprised, but then he couldn't really hide his smug grin. “Oh, you want to make breakfast? I wanted to, but if you insist ...” Yeah, sure. Bugger.

“So,” John wondered when they were eating, “why are you having breakfast while you're on a case?”

“Technically speaking, I'm not on the case yet,” Sherlock explained, “I'm still waiting for a hypothesis to be proven before really getting started.” Knowing there was no way to get a better explanation, John let the comment pass.

“While we are waiting for that to happen, would you mind joining me for a walk again?” Stupid question.

They strolled into the mountains, and John couldn't help but notice the change in Sherlock's behaviour. He was chatting all the time, telling John how bees were so much more interesting than people usually believed them to be. “When we're old we'll need a cottage in the country, so I can keep a hive or two.” We? Well, no objections here.

The peaceful summer mood of the mountains found its way easily into John's soul, and he relaxed a lot more than he would have usually done. But then, so did Sherlock, it seemed. When John stumbled on their way up a rocky path, he was caught instantly, with a tight grip around his waist. And it was not just his imagination that the arm lingered there slightly longer than necessary. 

Enjoying the feeling, John stumbled two more times on purpose. The second time, their eyes locked after Sherlock had let him go again, and the knowing grin on Sherlock's face did really funny things to John's stomach.

“You know I'm sorry for what I said about your parents,” Sherlock said earnestly when they had a rest at the small lake.

“What about your violin?”, John asked when they walked towards the coast again. “I thought Mycroft mentioned it was an old family heirloom. But you said your mother broke yours.”

Sherlock flushed a little. Which did funny things to John's stomach, too. “Father had more than one. Mycroft gave me his after my last detox.”

“Oh, well, that was ...”

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock cut him short, flushing even more, “... and yes, I do, but don't you dare tell him.”

By the time they reached the shore, John could have learned a lot about nearly extinct butterflies, reticulated willows and red deer if he hadn't been so busy concentrating on the sound of Sherlock's deep, rich, content voice.

He had also been busy with finding harmless excuses to touch Sherlock's arm six times.

Walking along the beach it turned out that Sherlock had never learned how to skip a stone over the water. It took John about five minutes to teach him the basics. After mastering the skill with breathtaking ease, Sherlock spent forty minutes trying to teach John how to do so more effectively. “Come on, John, eight skips aren't an impossible goal.”

“You are the only person I've ever told about my father's death,” Sherlock blurted when John was watching a seagull circling above them. Despite the gentle breeze coming from the sea, John felt warm inside.

“Thank you,” he answered earnestly, watching Sherlock gaze at him shyly. A wonderful expression.

“I finally understand it,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly while he was mimicking John's favourite I'm-at-the-oceanside-pose, arms outstretched, facing the sea with closed eyes, feeling the salty wind prickling on his face. John broke the pose to take a closer look at Sherlock. He was smiling, eyes still closed, hair completely undone by the wind, looking young and relaxed and happy.

“What do you understand?” he asked curiously when no explanation followed.

“People talking about this perfect moment thing,” Sherlock answered without opening his eyes, “and I'm sure this is one of them.”

It must have been the energetic mixture of sun and wind, or maybe the easiness of the entire day, or maybe it was just the bravery of a fool that made John say, “No, it's not.” 

Sherlock broke the pose then, too, staring at him in bewilderment. “It is wonderful, yes,” John bravely went on, not quite knowing why he was not scared to death, “but to make it a perfect moment something crucial is missing.” 

“What would that be?” Sherlock's eyes were shining with sheer puzzlement, his guard completely down. He genuinely seemed to have no idea what John was up to.

“Oh, “John said, feeling even more of this strange courage swelling inside of him, “it's hard to explain. But I could show you.”

Not waiting for an answer, he stepped forward a little, gently pulled Sherlock closer and kissed him.

***

(sensory overflow!)  
Sherlock was taken completely by surprise.  
(lips, warm and soft and wet and gentle, hands on my back, need to breathe, his smell and his taste and his fingers and his lips, so close and so warm and I need to breathe, his hand in my hair and his lips still kissing, not letting go, never letting go, his hand tugging my hair gently)  
He moaned without realising it, pressing closer to John.  
(why is he, he can't be, must be pure lust must be … wouldn't be bad, but it feels more like … but that can't be, no-one would ...  
need to find out, need to oh those lips and that tongue and what are his hands doing there? Want more! What was I thinking before?)

His hands seemed to work on their own accord now, one finding its way to John's face,  
(so warm, so real, he's moaning, kissing me makes him moan, his hair so soft and short and too short to be tugged his neck tilted to reach me)  
the other one sliding up and down John's back.  
(strong and real and made for leaning onto and that makes him moan even more how can he make these wonderful sounds because of me he must be … but he can't no-one can, only … )

He broke the kiss for a second, looking down at John  
(yes, pupils definitely dilated, is breathing as hard as I am, can feel his penis reacting as well, but there is more to his look than lust, looks happy and content and … loving? But no, can't be, need to ...)  
only to pull him in again, kissing him once more.  
(more hungry now, so is he, his lips hot and swollen and not stopping and sucking at my lip and more more and his hands on my oh more don't stop now and that feeling inside of me so hot and strong and desperate and need to breathe again but don't stop now his tongue in my mouth demanding and searching and don't stop and my tongue in this mouth now and this is not just lust but how can he he can't, I could only be loved by an …)

Suddenly he understood, finally found the solution to the mystery that had kept him thinking for so long  
(and it was easy and obvious and I should have seen it so much earlier)  
and Sherlock couldn't help but laugh even though his tongue was still deeply stuck in John's mouth.

He broke the kiss once more and buried his face deep in the curve of John's neck.  
(warm and safe and he loves me)

***

John heard the laughter rising from Sherlock's throat while they were kissing, deep and rich and honest, the most wonderful sound he had ever heard. Besides the moan that he had evoked from him just seconds before that, of course.

And now Sherlock was cuddled against him, his face pressed against John's neck, completely vulnerable, his body pressed so close John could barely breathe, and the intimacy of this gesture aroused him even more than the kissing had.

They stood like that for a lifetime, John gently stroking Sherlock's back, Sherlock still hiding from the world in the curve of John's neck. Then Sherlock raised his head, and Lord, that expression on his face … He was not just looking happy, he was literally beaming, happiness seeping from every pore of his body, eyes blazing, cheeks flushed delicately.

He brought their foreheads together, slightly bumping against John's, cupping his face gently. “You are ...” he said, voice deep and hoarse and happy, “... an idiot.”

At that moment, John knew that their relationship would never, ever become boring and ordinary. He couldn't help but giggle,“Whatever it takes to make you happy.”

Sherlock giggled too, still making sure their bodies were pressed together tightly. “You must be,” he explained, “you couldn't love me otherwise.”

Well, he had a valid point there. John looked at him, into those wonderful eyes, felt himself grinning like a fool, and when no good answer came to his mind, he simply kissed Sherlock again and again.

***

To give Sherlock credit, he really tried to hold still for five more minutes when the hypothesis he wanted to prove came back to his mind. John could not hide a smile when he watched the subtle fidgeting for a while before he felt too sorry for his … what, boyfriend? Lover? Partner? Sherlock.

“You really want us to go back to our cottage and find out about your theory, don't you?” he asked, grinning at the immense relief that spread over Sherlock's face. So they went back. Sherlock kept his arm quite demandingly slipped around John's shoulders, happily chatting about mica schist and the last glacial period.

The cottage came into view, and from the distance they saw a figure sitting on their doorstep. “Yes,” Sherlock exclaimed, becoming his smug self again for a moment. Then he looked at John, and his expression turned into an honest version of his puppy look. Oh hell, John thought, if Sherlock was going to use that more often, he would surely be in trouble.

“We need to make agreements,” Sherlock stated, gazing at John intently, his hands squeezing John's firmly. “That's what couples do, isn't it? Make agreements?” John found it was impossible to hear him say they were a couple, to be at the receiving end of this gaze without kissing Sherlock, and so he did. Amazing that from now on he was to do that regularly.

“What was it you wanted to talk about?” he asked a while later, when they both had found their breath again. It was sad to see how Sherlock's face instantly fell, if only slightly.

“When we take on the case, I will probably be ...”

He desperately searched for words, and John obediently jumped in, “Yourself?”

That got him a frown, combined with a wrinkled nose. John smiled at him, and took him into his arms once more. “That's perfectly fine, Sherlock. I like you when you are yourself.”

“You are an idiot,” Sherlock tutted happily, and John contemplated pressing a kiss on this lovely wrinkled nose. Then he realised how high he would have to tiptoe to reach it.

“Lucky you”, he simply answered instead, and they both smiled.

“So, our agreement is that I'll love you even when you're on a case?” John asked, shortly before coming into hearing range of the cottage.

Sherlock nodded, and then added thoughtfully, “Should I agree on something else in return?” Suddenly a field of opportunities lay wide open in front of John. But then he looked into Sherlock's eyes. He was serious and ready to agree to anything if only John would always love him.

“No,” John said, and gently kissed his cheek.

When they approached the cottage, Sherlock easily switched into his client treating mode, upright and with a casual business-like air around him, radiating the general idea of natural superiority. Incredible that he could do so while still pulling John in on him.

“Mr Gibson,” he greeted their guest, “I suppose you are here to ask us to prove Mrs Dunbar's innocence.”

“I know beyond doubt that Grace is innocent,“ Neil started without preamble once they were inside. “That woman has a heart that wouldn't let her kill a fly.” John watched them as he made tea. Sherlock had quickly placed himself at the dining table, his back facing the window. That way Neil was forced to sit down on the other side of the table, where he was blinded by the low evening sun. From the look on his urbane face, he was not used to such a treatment.

“I've been told by the local officer that the evidence against Mrs. Dunbar is overwhelming, to put it mildly,” Sherlock stated coldly. If John hadn't known that he was already on the case, he would have believed that Sherlock was not interested at all.

Neil seemed to think the same. “Please, Mr. Holmes,” he said intensely, “if ever in your life you have shown your powers, put them now into this case.” Sherlock studied him carefully, or so it must appear to Neil. John was sure that in reality Sherlock had read him within the first two minutes. “Let me tell you everything I know, maybe I have a clue and don't know it.”

“All right, tell me, Mr. Gibson, what were the exact relations between you and Miss Dunbar?” Neil blinked nervously, one hand absent-mindedly stroking his short black hair. Ah.

“I … she is our home tutor. I'm her boss. That's all.” He looked from Sherlock to John who couldn't help but feel a little pity for him. That was clearly a lie, and Sherlock was not exactly kind towards liars.

And indeed, Sherlock rose with a disappointed expression, “I'm sorry, Mr. Gibson, there is nothing I can do for you. Goodbye!”

Neil just stared at him for a moment. Then he jumped to his feet, his cheeks flushed red with anger: “What do you want, money? That's not the problem. Name your figure. Money is nothing to me in this case. You can burn it if it's any use in lighting you to the truth.”

He only met an unreadable expression. “This is not about money, Mr. Gibson. You wanted to leave, I think.” John felt a bit like he was watching a very mean reality TV show.

Neil still was not giving up. “If it's not money you want, what about fame? I'm in charge of TV networks all over the world. I could make you famous in twenty-eight nations over night.”

Yes, idiot, exactly what we need after the whole Reichenbach affair. “Thank you, Mr. Gibson,” he heard Sherlock say coldly, “but I do not think that I am in need of booming.” He saw Neil clenching his hands angrily, moving closer towards Sherlock. So did John. 

“You are not doing yourself a favour, Mr. Holmes,” he spit out, “I have broken stronger men than you.”

“Right,” Sherlock agreed, a little smile playing on his lips, “and how many of them would have been willing to prove your love's innocence afterwards?” The two tall men were standing so close now that they must have felt each other's breath in their face.

Too close for John to interfere should Neil lose the rest of his composure. Still, he swiftly moved to Sherlock's side, ready to demonstrate a superiority in numbers at least. To his surprise, Neil's anger subsided as quickly as it had risen. His body slacked, his face fell. From one second to the next, he gave the impression of a broken man.

“So you do love her,” Sherlock stated surprisingly softly.

The other man nodded, and quickly added, “But we did not have an affair, please, you must believe me. Grace would hear nothing of it. She said she would never be the other woman, and that her friendship with Maria was too important to her than to ruin it for man like … a man like me.”

His eyes lost focus for a moment, a whirl of emotions crossing his face. John caught Sherlock's gaze, smug and triumphant. John smiled at him, and instantly a flash of pride showed up on Sherlock's features. Another topic for John's “stuff that does funny things to my stomach” list.

“Tell me more about your marriage,” Sherlock said then, dragging both Neil and John out of their thoughts.

He sighed, pondered the order for a moment and then explained, “I met her in Brazil twenty years ago, when making preparations to expand my network to South America. I fell for her head over heels, and we stumbled into a relationship almost instantly. It was passionate, whole-hearted, tropical, ill-balanced. Well, to make a long story short, I loved her and I married her. It was only a few years ago when the romance had passed, that I realised that we had nothing, absolutely nothing in common.”

His voice trailed off, and he shook his head sadly before he continued: “My love faded. If hers had faded too it might have been easier, but it did not. Do what I might, nothing could turn her from me.”

“Is that why you've been so rude to Maria?” John chimed in now, “To make her stop loving you?”

That made Sherlock regard him in a peculiar fashion. He moved closer to John, standing so close to him that their shoulders touched, and placed his hand on John's back. Unexpected, but nice. Neil nodded, “Yes, but with no effect. I never understood how her love for me could have been so absolute.” John felt the pressure of Sherlock's hand increase, and gave him a reassuring gaze.

“And did your wife know about your feelings for Mrs. Dunbar?” Sherlock went on, sounding distant, unimpressed. As if he did not feel the need to touch John simply to remind himself that they were happily in love with each other.

“Yes, unfortunately she did. Though nothing, nothing ever happened between me and Grace.” Neil looked at both of them pleadingly.

“But Maria was bitterly jealous. She ended her friendship with Grace instantly after realising I had feelings for her. Poor Grace, Maria had always been so important to her.” And yet you had no scruples to mess it up by asking Grace to become your lover, John thought. He caught Sherlock's eyes and read a silent agreement there.

“She was so … passionate,” Neil went on, and suddenly his face crumpled. “Could it be … could it be that Maria tried to kill Grace? And that it went so wrong that Maria herself got killed instead?”

Sherlock looked at him, allowing himself to show some sympathy now. “That possibility had already occurred to me. Indeed it seems to be the only obvious alternative to deliberate murder.”

John frowned. That thought had never occurred to him. He did not want to admit that, but of course Sherlock had already read it from his face. He gave John a wry half-smile. “It would explain the fact that there were only the two women's footprints at the mouth of the bridge,” Sherlock explained, looking at Neil, but surely aiming the explanation at John. “ Apart from those of the little threesome that went looking after the gun-shot, but as they all have a sound alibi, we can ignore them. It could also explain why the weapon was found in Mrs Dunbar's wardrobe.”

“But when she was questioned afterwards, why did she not say so?” John pointed out, and to his surprise that somehow made Sherlock smile.

“Perfect question. The message on the mobile, John”, he said happily and turned back to Neil. “Mr. Gibson, I trust you will see to it that we will be brought to Ullapool tomorrow at ten. It is about time that we talk to Mrs Dunbar.”

***

When Neil left, John watched Sherlock's body sag a little. The dark circles underneath his eyes were back, his face pale. “Exhausted?” John asked softly, a hand on Sherlock's back.

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully, “Is it all right to be?”

They looked at each other for a while. Of course, the real question was not if it was all right that Sherlock was tired after talking to a potential client. The question was if it was all right that Sherlock still felt the impact of the depression even after their kiss.

John pulled him in, and nodded into the embrace, “Of course it is.”

The rest of the evening was spent in comfortable silence. After another reasonable amount of kissing, that is. And after ending up on the sofa, huddled against each other, Sherlock telling John that they were not actually cuddling, because Sherlock Holmes did not cuddle. “I'm merely stimulating my thought process by maximizing physical contact with you. And I love that thing you are doing to my head right now which is not ruffling my hair, but activating my temporal lobe.” Yes, sure.

Later, Sherlock started to research something for the case on the internet, his feet tucked in under John's thighs. Every now and then he would go “Ha” or “Um”, and whenever he did, he looked up and met John's eyes. A smile always attended that gaze, and John grinned back, having no idea what exactly Sherlock was doing.

Whenever John's eyes closed of their own accord Sherlock moved his feet slightly, always just enough to prevent him from falling asleep right there. “Think of your back, you're not thirty-six any longer,” Sherlock finally said and hushed him to bed.

When lying down, John imagined Sherlock would follow him a few hours later. He could literally see him standing in the middle of the bedroom, unsure of what to do, torn between his own bed and John's. Well, there was an easy way to prevent that scenario.

He got up again, grabbed Sherlock's pillow and duvet and simply placed it on the left side of his own bed. He rolled to the right side and fell asleep almost instantly.

John had no idea how long he had been asleep when a movement on the mattress woke him up. “Hey,” he said drowsily and smiled, but it did not take him long to realise something was wrong. Sherlock was lying on the very edge of the bed, completely stiff. John sat up, and something stopped him from simply reaching over.

“Tell me what's wrong”, he said instead, trying to put as much gentleness in his voice as possible. He felt Sherlock move a little.

“Nothing that's your fault,” was the mysterious answer.

John waited for a moment. When Sherlock did not elaborate, he said, “Well, tell me anyway.”

He heard him sigh, and finally he said, quietly, “You are not the first person I have had a relationship with. The first one ever I've fallen in love with, yes, but not the first one I shared a bed with.”

Oh. So much for that virgin thing then. “And sharing a bed wasn't a good idea back then?” John guessed, and the silence that followed confirmed his assumption.

It took Sherlock half an eternity to go on, “A nice understatement. I hated it. Most likely because ...” John mentally braced himself. After all he had learned about Sherlock's past it no longer surprised him that he had had an atypical depression. In fact, it was rather marvellous that he had been able to go on like this on his own all those years.

“That relationship wasn't about love. It was about power, and about showing off with your possession and about finally being part of a peer group.” John tugged his knees underneath his chin. Easy to tell which of that had been Sherlock's part of the deal.

“At the time, I granted myself even less sleep than now, but the few hours I turned in with him, I would sleep like a log.“ He fell silent again, and the need to reach out for him and touch him grew so intense that John could barely stand it.

“What did he do to you in those nights?” he asked instead, not able to keep the disdain from his voice. Another deep sigh.

“He knew I did not like the whole sexual aspect of our relationship, at least not the way he was presenting it to me. Asking me to have sex often led to rejection. Hence, he used to wait for me to be asleep before he … “ John drew in a sharp breath, before Sherlock continued, “Not that he had done things we hadn't agreed upon. He just always … I hated waking up like that. That's why I've always avoided sleeping in the same bed with the person I've had sex with later in life.” Finally some of the anger John was feeling was to be heard in Sherlock's voice. Good!

“Well,” John said angrily, “whoever it was can be glad that I don't know him. Because I can tell you, I really would like show him what I think of his harassments.” Eloquent silence. Not good. “I know him?” he realised, and the fact that Sherlock still was not answering nearly made him lose it. “I know him? Who is he? I barely know anyone from your ...” Lord, no. “That banker guy? Wilkes? Sherlock, talk to me, was it Wilkes?”

More silence. And a hand that grabbed his. “I'm not proud of it”, Sherlock said calmly, but John knew him well enough to hear all the things resonating in that sentence. 

He thought about it for a moment, and then made a quick decision. He knew if he let Sherlock return to his own bed, this would become an issue between them for a very long time.

“I'll tell you what we'll do,” he explained, squeezing Sherlock's hand reassuringly. “I usually fall asleep lying on my side anyway. I'll move over as far as I can, and you'll stay right there, where you are now.” He felt the pressure on his hand increasing. “The rest is completely up to you. If you wish it, we'll stay exactly like that. If you feel like snuggling up later, it's fine with me, too. All right?”

“It's ridiculous that something like this is necessary,” Sherlock huffed, but John cut him short before he could go on with his self-directed tirade.

“That's just how it is. I do insist on a good night kiss, though.” Slowly he leaned forward and searched for Sherlock's face with his free hand. When he found it, he placed an innocent kiss on his head. Then he rolled up on his side of his bed and waited for sleep to come, hoping he was handling this correctly.

When he woke up at dawn, Sherlock was lying with his cheek on John's outstretched hand, a little smile on his rested face.


	7. Chapter 7

Apparently John was handling things quite well. On their ninth morning in Scotland, he was woken by a ticklish sensation in his nose. It turned out to be Sherlock's hair. He had curled himself up against John, lying as close as possible without actually lying on him. His nose was nestled against John's chin, his legs were tucked up and pressed against John's belly.

John had no idea if Sherlock had rolled over on purpose or by accident, so he decided not to move for a while. The last thing he wanted was to disturb him and stir up unpleasant memories. He only shuffled his nose a bit to prevent himself from sneezing. It was incredible how Sherlock managed to have hair that smelled like coco and lime in a surrounding that made everything else smell like salt and seaweed within minutes.

At the exact moment he was sure that he could no longer lie like that without at least moving his arm a bit, he heard Sherlock's deep voice, “I've changed my mind. This is nice.” John couldn't help but smile.

“How long have you been awake already?” he asked, and his smile grew wider when Sherlock answered, “Fifty-two minutes.”

John finally stretched his arm, placing it loosely around Sherlock's side. He couldn't remember feeling so content ever before in his life. Seeing Sherlock smile back at him happily intensified the feeling. Never before had everything felt so right.

“No dreaming of the mind palace,” Sherlock whispered, then he moved back his head so he could see John's face. “Is this how people always feel when they are in love?” he asked, earnest curiosity written on his features.

“Not sure,” John answered, “how do you feel?” He had a general idea about that, of course, but was dying to hear it from Sherlock himself.

“I'm happy because you are so close that the hair on your leg tickles my feet. I spent twenty-eight minutes listening to your breathing and it wasn't boring because it was your breathing. I find it fascinating that your heart beats slightly faster when you exhale, even though this is the case for thirty-six percent of all humans and not that fascinating at all. I was content to just lie by your side and feel your body-heat radiating. My stomach does funny things when I think of the fact that you love me. I want to buy us a cottage where we can live when we're old and I want to make coffee for you in the morning just to see you smile.”

John had to swallow hard. Sherlock looked at him with these wide eyes, all curious and slightly surprised at the sombre expression on John's face. Still at a loss of words, John pulled him in for a long, close hug instead.

They continued to lie there for a while, not talking, just feeling each other's presence. Perfection. John's hand lazily caressed Sherlock's back, causing him to make little sounds that sounded almost like purring. No, this was perfection. There was something he really should discuss with Sherlock, but right now John did not feel like talking at all. He started to place kisses on Sherlock's face, first on his forehead, then on his nose, finally finding his mouth. Amazing how willingly he responded. 

Their kisses became more intense, and Sherlock was unsurprisingly good at petting, of course, with his extraordinary hand-eye-coordination. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once, always finding another spot that made John moan. As their kisses grew deeper, Sherlock's tongue moved into his mouth, wanting and demanding. He felt his self-control slip through his fingers, but then, what did he need it for, anyway? But he really, really should tell Sherlock that he nev- …

Lord!

Sherlock obviously knew exactly what to do down there with these elegant hands. John gasped for air sharply, staring at him in sheer amazement. He realised he was panting. And from one touch alone. Jesus, this was … Sherlock smiled at him rather smugly and moved his hand again, only slightly, holding tight to what it had grabbed. John winced helplessly. “Sherlock, I ...” he started. A careful pull. He gasped again. God, yes!

He searched for Sherlock's eyes and found them looking at him with such incredible happiness that it nearly got John off on its own. “You wanted to say something?” he asked innocently and pulled once more, less gentle now. John felt himself responding to this rather bluntly. Say something? Yes, he …

Another pull, strong and self-assured. Or did he not? No idea. Sherlock started kissing his throat, and he was no longer sure what his own hands were doing. He had the vague idea that they were clinging to Sherlock's back, but he could not tell for sure. Sherlock's free hand was dancing all over his body, kneading his arms and his legs and softly caressing his belly and his chest while his mouth was still busy at his neck.

And the sounds he was making. John was sure he had never heard anything more beautiful than Sherlock moaning and breathing heavily with arousal. And for him. He tried to kiss back, but his head was pushed against the pillow instantly. The other hand was still stroking, slightly increasing the pace with every groan John made.

John knew he would not last much longer. If he had had full control of his body he surely would have held it back, enjoying the sensation as long as possible, but he had not. He had been waiting for this for too long, loved this impossible man too much, to last long. He groaned louder now, feeling his hips strongly responding to the rhythm of Sherlock's stroking. He felt like floating and falling at the same time.

“You look gorgeous in pre-orgasm,” Sherlock whispered into his ear between kisses, and that almost instantly got him off. He was throbbing and twitching in Sherlock's hand and arching and probably even screaming Sherlock's name, not sure about that, and finally sagged back onto the bed.

“That,” he gasped, “was amazing.” Sherlock smiled, and with incredibly elegant movements wiped John's belly and his own hand clean with one of their duvets.

“I know,” he answered, but his eyes were gleaming humorously, and John couldn't stop the giggle forming in his throat. So this was perfection.

For a few moments John was merely lying there, slowly recovering, nudging against Sherlock's side, completely satisfied. Then he started to feel a bit guilty, knowing he had been quite on the receiving end of this one. He opened his mouth to say so, but Sherlock cut him short with a kiss, soft and gentle and as if John was something extremely precious.

“Don't,” he said afterwards, “don't you dare to feel bad for receiving. This is not a calculation that needs to come out even in the end. At least,” he added, suddenly sounding shy again, “that's not how I want it to be.”

After that Sherlock seemed to have found a certain fascination for John's hair, for he kept cuddling it with a satisfied hum while John closed his eyes and drifted through the sleepiness of post-orgasm. He stopped deciding which moment exactly was finally perfection, for they all were simply too good to be true.

“I can't,” he heard Sherlock huff after some time, sounding curious and amazed again.

“Um?” John grunted, not sure he was capable of complete sentences yet.

“I can't deduce what you wanted to say before arousal silenced you.” Oh. Now was probably a stupid time to have that talk. But knowing Sherlock would not stop nagging him about it, he turned to his side and looked at him, slightly grinning.

“Well, it might be a bit late now,” he explained, “but I wanted to let you know that I've never actually been in bed with a man.”

Sherlock stared at him as if he was an especially complicated riddle. “Why?” he asked, sounding completely surprised. John grinned at him.

“Remember all the times I told everyone that I'm not gay? Well, that was mostly because I'm not, you know, gay. Or bi, for that matter.” The amazed stare went on.

“But you love me,” Sherlock stated as if that would exclude what John had just said.

“I do,” he explained, his hand getting lost in those wonderful curls again, “but I love you. Neither because you are a man nor even though you are a man. I love you regardless of the fact that you are a man. I love you because you are you.” Sherlock's face looked as if he was overflowing with feelings too deep to be named. John assumed that he had looked exactly the same when Sherlock had told him about his feelings earlier. A wonderful expression.

“So I'm your big exception?” Sherlock asked, flushing now, looking so amazed that it touched John all the way down to his soul.

“Yes, you are,” he confirmed and was pulled into a fierce embrace so suddenly he bumped his head against Sherlock's collarbone rather hard.

“Good for us that I'm absolutely not a virgin, then.”

John could literally feel Sherlock's self-assured smirk without looking at him, and another giggle escaped him. “I never said I loved you for your modesty, did I?” Sherlock's answering laugh was honest and deep and warm and sent little shivers through John's body.

***

He must have dozed off, for when he woke up again, Sherlock was gone. The spot next to John was empty, but he was neatly tucked into one of the duvets – hopefully not the one Sherlock had used to wipe him clean.

He got up with a certain amount of will power and found a shirt and pants to put on before padding into the living room that once again smelled of freshly brewed coffee. He could so get used to this, he thought and smiled.

Sherlock looked up from the sofa where he had been busy with John's laptop and drew an apologetic face. “Sorry I made you coffee again,” he said, leaving John puzzled. He eyed the coffee suspiciously, poured some of it into a mug and sniffed carefully.

Why?” he asked when he failed to notice anything bad about it.

“I only made it to make you smile.” Ah. Right, why should loving Sherlock be less strange than normal Sherlock?

“What is so bad about making me smile?”

Sherlock huffed at himself. “Seeing you smile because of something I've done for you makes me happy,” he explained in disdain.

“So what?” John still did not see the problem. 

Now Sherlock was all honest puppy look again, completely irresistible and strangely vulnerable at the same time, “I'm being egotistic. Shouldn't I make you smile just to make you happy?” Now John couldn't help but laugh. He pressed a kiss on Sherlock's head before settling down next to him.

“Sherlock, why don't you think about WHY it makes you happy to see me happy because of something you've done for me?” he suggested and watched Sherlock's nose wrinkle once more.

The silence that settled over them was nice and comfortable. While Sherlock was still contemplating this enormous riddle, John grabbed his laptop to check his mail. There was a concerned one from Molly, asking if Sherlock was getting better, and a nice one from Greg, asking if John was all right. And a very disturbing one from Mycroft, saying, “Welcome to the family. I expect you both for dinner at the manor when you're back in England.” How the hell …

“Oh,” Sherlock suddenly exclaimed. And then, “I take it back. I'm not sorry I made coffee again.” Riddle solved. John grinned. Never, ever would their relationship be boring.

***

“Remember to keep up the distance between us,” Sherlock reminded John for the second time when they walked into Ullapool's police station.  
(love how I only have to tell him important things twice, so much cleverer than most people)

“I know, I know,” John replied, only slightly irritated,  
(love his patience with me and how he's barely ever insulted)  
“she's not to know we're a couple  
(a couple, love the sound of that)  
because it's important for you to see how much she's flirting with me.”  
(hate the concept of that. definitely. but it's important, can't help it)

When Coventry let them into the visitors room,  
(someone threw up in here less than forty-eight hours ago, only explanation for disproportionate, artificial citrus odour)  
Dunbar was already waiting for them.  
(has cried several times since being imprisoned, hasn't slept enough)  
She leapt to her feet  
(relief on her face, looks first at John then at me then back at him, looks at me for two seconds and at him for five, knows that I'm the one who could get her out of prison but pays more attention to him, is definitely interested in John, this speaks against serious attachment to Mr Gibson. Or tells me she's a slut)  
(where did that derogatory thought come from?)  
took a step towards them and stopped again.  
(looking lost and desperate)

“I'm so glad you are here,” she said,  
(her voice sounding small and quivering)  
“Please, you have to believe me. Please.” She looked pleadingly at them.  
(but still more focused on John)  
(don't like that)

John stepped closer to her and patted her arm reassuringly  
(don't like that either)  
“I'm sure that if anyone can help you, it's Sherlock.”  
(better. still don't like them touching. need to concentrate on Dunbar)

Her attention switched to him. “Please, Mr Holmes, you have to believe me. It wasn't my weapon, and I haven't …”  
(outburst typical for innocent convicts, need her to trust me, must remember to be nice)

“Mrs Dunbar,” he cut her short as patiently as possible,  
(judging from John's glance it could have been done even more patiently)  
“I can assure you that I'll do everything within my power to find out what happened that night.”  
(now appear to be trustworthy: hold eye-contact, lean towards her slightly, don't frown, don't smile just because case is so interesting. Yes, it's working)

“I've already told Maggie all I know,” she said, and new tears formed in her eyes,  
(why is it so unnerving to see her cry?)  
“I did not see anything.” Tears were rolling down her face now. John instinctively leaned closer and placed his hand on hers.  
(yes, that's why, exactly)

“I need to hear it from you once more,” Sherlock explained  
(oh, that sounded harsh even in my ears, John's accusatory glance confirms that)  
and added, “Please, Mrs Dunbar, what happened that day?”  
(my voice softer now, so is expression on John's face, good)

She sniffed  
(don't show impatience)  
and said, “I'd been doing the shopping when I received a text from her. She asked me to meet her at Thor bridge after dinner because she wanted to discuss something with me.”  
(I'm still not showing impatience, well done)

“Your answer is the message that was left open on the display of her mobile when she died,” Sherlock stated.  
(still not sounding too bored, John's forehead is not showing this frown it usually shows when I'm rude to victims so I must be doing fine, and Grace seems to be the victim here, at least she's not the murderer)  
Dunbar nodded,  
(and John leans closer to her again, why is that so irritating? And why does it put me in a foul mood?)  
and Sherlock went on asking,  
(keep voice nice and friendly, even though John's behaviour is positively aggravating)  
“Would you say that you and Mrs Gibson had a close relationship?”

Dunbar nodded again,  
(her face looks like the face of someone who tells the truth and why doesn't he lean back again?)  
“Yes. I mean, she was my boss, but … I always considered her my best friend out here.”  
(honest grief on her features now, sad, but why is John showing that much sympathy? why does that irritate me so much? it's annoying)

Sherlock tried, he really tried to keep his voice sympathetic when he asked, “So she did not know that Mr Gibson loved you?”  
(trying but failing, John sees it too, is only waiting for me to blunder, has already moved closer to her to comfort her when I spoil it)

To his surprise, Dunbar only flushed a little,  
(not offended by question, could mean quiet conscience)  
“At first no. She … found out a few days before her death. She was furious, but … at him, not at me. Or so I thought …” Her voice trailed off.  
(eyes losing focus, frowning, unpleasant memories)

“What do you mean?” John asked softly,  
(and why is even his soft voice annoying me now? really need to ask him)  
and Dunbar looked at him with sympathy  
(annoying, annoying, annoying, why did I think pretending not to be a couple was a good idea?)  
before she explained,  
“In that text she asked me to meet her at Thor bridge after dinner. When I came, she started yelling at me almost instantly. I tried to tell her that I was not interested in Neil but she wouldn't listen. She was so angry and mean, and when I couldn't stand it any longer, I fled. I had just reached the manor when I heard the gunshot.”

(can't really concentrate on her when John is doing all this arm-patting and nodding and grimacing in sympathy and regarding me with that look that says be careful, nearly missed how her face fell with realisation a second ago)  
“Oh god,” she whispered, new tears already swelling in her eyes, “the murderer must have just waited for me to leave. Why did not I stay?”  
(crying again, that's not helpful, need to finish this fast)

“How do you explain the fact that there was no text from Maria on your mobile, corresponding to the text found on hers?” Sherlock asked more coldly now  
(know the answer already, just need her reaction to confirm my theory)

Her eyes widened  
(usual reaction of victims to me being harsh, good, that supports my idea of what really happened)  
and she said, “I don't know.”  
(John glaring at me, silent warning, can't care about that now, need to prove point)

“How did the murder weapon end up inside your wardrobe?” he continued,  
(no more time to be patient)  
and again, Dunbar desperately said, ”I don't know.”

(John glaring more intensely now, but he does that regularly, why does it hurt me now?)  
“Why aren't there any other footprints on the way besides yours and Maria's?”  
(ignore him for a moment, concentrate on her)

“I don't know.”  
(not easy to ignore him)

“And why was Maria shot into the left side of her head when she was right-handed?”

(Dunbar crying now, but still looking at me, no sign of dishonesty)  
“I don't know, oh Lord, I don't know!”  
(point proven, case nearly solved)

(and John is angry)

With that, Sherlock's face jumped into its faked friendly mode again, and he stood up, “No, but I do. Thank you, Mrs Dunbar, it will take about two hours to prove your innocence.”  
(Dunbar surprised, so is John)  
He smiled at her cheerfully and left, leaving John behind to follow him.

***

“Why are you angry with me?” John asked when they left the police station. Sherlock had insisted on getting a picture of the murder weapon from Maggie, angrily ignoring John the entire five minutes it took her to print it out.

“I don't know what you are talking about,” Sherlock huffed, avoiding John's eyes, clenching his jaws.

“I'm not angry,” Sherlock spat angrily at John a few minutes later when they got into the car. John couldn't help but roll his eyes, even though he had planned not to.

“Obviously,” he drily stated while Sherlock was still silently fuming. “Look, we can talk about ...”

“Not. Angry.” Yes, sure. John sighed.

They spent some time in silence, Sherlock staring out of the window, eyes blazing and arms crossed, John staring at Sherlock. The driver had been (angrily) told to take them to Thor Bridge before bringing them to Thor Manor. When the car turned into the narrow farm road Sherlock repeated that he was not angry at all, and John told him what he thought about that.

“Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm definitely not jealous,” Sherlock grumbled when they got out.

John patiently sighed again, “Of course not.”

On the bridge, Sherlock purposefully went to the stone railing. He closely inspected the left side, frowning. Then he shot to the other one and his face instantly lit up. “Yes,” he exclaimed, beaming at John before remembering that he was angry.

John smiled back placidly. “Found what you were looking for?” he asked, stepping closer again, feeling it was safe, now that the worst of Sherlock's anger seemed to be gone.

He was regarded with a kind of frown John began to classify as “things that have to do with our relationship and that I don't understand yet”. “Yes,” Sherlock answered reluctantly. It looked like he was trying hard to be angry again, but then his natural need to show off in front of John seemed to get the better of him. “Here, see this chip in the ledge.”

John leaned closer, deliberately touching Sherlock's arm in the process. There it was, a small chip in the otherwise well-kept ledge. “I knew it would be there,” Sherlock stated, his face doing funny things while he tried to look angry and proud at the same time. Now John really couldn't help but beam at him.

“Brilliant. Whatever it means,” he complimented, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. For a moment he stiffened slightly, and John could see thoughts crossing his face rapidly. Then all of a sudden he threw himself into John's arms, burying his face in the curve of John's neck once more, hugging him tightly.

“I wasn't angry,” he lied one last time, and John nodded. “And I wasn't jealous.”

“Apparently,” John said, hugging back. He knew that they probably would have to find a way to talk about things, but right now he was perfectly content with sitting it out and hugging afterwards.

After a while Sherlock reappeared from his new favourite hiding place, looking at John a bit sheepishly. “I've solved the case while I was … neither angry nor jealous,” he announced, sounding so much like a five year old John couldn't help but ruffle his hair.

“Well done, dear,” he said, pressing a chaste little kiss on his hands. “So, who did it?”

Sherlock grinned at him, his smug self nearly restored again. “Come on, John,” he quipped, “if you still don't see it, you'll have to wait until I'll explain it to all the other blind fools out there.” Always the romantic.

Sherlock was already on his phone, ordering Maggie to come to the bridge instantly when John got back into the car, sighing again, happily this time.

It took the driver only a few minutes to get them to Thor manor, where a hopeful Neil opened the door himself. Sherlock held the picture of the weapon right under his nose. “You inherited an old and rather extensive weapons collection you never took much interest in,” he said, and John could see how much he enjoyed Neil's surprised reaction.

“Well, yes, I do, how do you ...”

Of course he was cut short. “It must contain many weapons, otherwise two missing pieces would have caused more attention.”

“Two?” John asked, taken by surprise, too. Lovers or not, the “John, please try to keep up” glance was not funny. Sod.

“You can't have collected the weapons yourself, or you would instantly have realised that the murder weapon was part of a pair, a fact that could have been used to exculpate the woman you're in love with. I need a dispensable piece of your collection that resembles the murder weapon in looks and weight as closely as possible. And I need a rope.”

Neil went off, looking confused. Sherlock remained standing in the enormous hallway, looking smug. It was good to see him that happy, even if John still had no idea what all this was about. They grinned at each other, and Sherlock stepped closer to pull John in like it was the most natural thing in the world when in the middle of a case. Well, maybe it was.

Neil came back with an old looking revolver and a rope. “You were right,” he said, still marvelling, “according to the inventory list there is a pair of old guns missing. This one should be similar enough, but what do you need the rope for?”

“To solve the case,” Sherlock mysteriously claimed, took gun and rope from his hands and stormed out.

***

In London, it was never hard to look into the deepest abyss of civilisation, but here, in the idyllic countryside of Northern Scotland, it did not come easy to John. The warm summer sun was high in the sky when Maggie arrived with one of her colleagues from town. They were standing on top of an elegant stone bridge, surrounded by the scarce but beautiful landscape with a mountain river swooshing below them and bees humming in the air, to discuss a gruesome crime.

Sherlock was in full consulting detective mode, standing straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes sharp and gleaming. It was so wonderful to see him like that again. John feared that after the little presentation that was about to begin soon, he would relapse into his exhausted, depressed state once more, but for now it was just brilliant to look at him.

John briefly wondered how much not good it was that the very sight aroused him, considering the fact that they were at a crime scene.

“The answer to it all is the gun in Mrs Dunbar's wardrobe,” Sherlock explained, walking up and down in front of the little group excitedly, clearly enjoying the audience. John saw Maggie frown, about to say something.

Sherlock must have seen it, too, for he instantly went on, “Simpler minds would believe that to be the most important evidence of her guilt. But how can anyone seriously believe that a woman who carries out a cold blooded murder to eliminate her love rival, most likely planned and prepared it over a span of several months, would be stupid enough to place the only treacherous proof right inside her own room? Look around,” he said gesturing at the wilderness around them, “throwing it away blindly would have been a better solution than hiding it in the first place the police would search.”

John watched Maggie slowly wrapping her mind around what Sherlock was suggesting. “Are you saying someone planted it there for us to find?”

John also watched the corners of Sherlock's mouth drop slightly shortly before he made eye contact with John. “Of course I am saying that” was clearly written on his face. But he did not say it, and John smiled back approvingly.

“But who would do that?” Neil asked, clearly shaken, possibly torn between hope for Grace and mourning over Maria.

“Excellent question,” Sherlock said, and turned to the two police officers. “The same person that would make sure that Mrs Dunbar's text would be found on Mrs Gibson's mobile by leaving it open on the display.”

He let that sink in for a moment. John was still puzzled, but next to him, Maggie drew in a sharp breath. “Maria,” she said, eyes wide in amazement. Sherlock nodded slowly.

“Exactly”, he stated, calm and self-assured, as if he had not just suggested that the victim had done it herself.

“That's insane,” Neil sputtered, then looked incredulously at Maggie and her colleague. “That's insane, isn't it?” It sounded insane, yes, John had to agree to that. But when Sherlock was that sure, who was he to doubt him?

It was clear that Maggie, too, was still trying to get it right. “So you are saying that Maria placed the gun in Grace's wardrobe, but what about the text message? We searched Grace's mobile, but couldn't find the text Grace was talking about.”

Sherlock regarded her seriously. “Why,” he suggested, “would Mrs Dunbar tell you about a faked text she knew could not be found?” Maggie thought about that, frowning deeply. 

“Assuming it was Maria,” she thought out loud, “assuming that she had placed the weapon in Grace's wardrobe and assuming she had deleted her own message from Grace's mobile … It must have been before them meeting here, but ... What happened to the weapon?” she asked.

Sherlock smiled. “I learned just yesterday that sometimes it's easier to show than to tell,” he smirked, looking so deep into John's eyes that John completely forgot about the case for a second.

He felt himself flush a little, and suddenly realised that their first kiss at the seaside had been merely one day ago. It was incredible how quickly they had fallen into pace with being together. How natural it felt. How right.

“John, hand me the gun and the rope.” Sherlock's wonderful, deep voice did not really help to shake off the sudden inappropriate thoughts that flooded John's brain, but at least the command got him back to action. He handed him both, and when their gaze locked for a moment something in Sherlock's eyes told John that he should have taken the opportunity of going to a grocery shop in Ullapool and buying some lubricant. He swallowed hard.

“Imagine Maria,” Sherlock said while tying one end of the rope to the gun, “waiting here for Grace to show up.” He knelt down and grabbed a big stone John hadn't noticed before. “It had been her idea to meet here on the bridge, and for a good reason.” He tied the other end of the rope to the stone and placed the whole construction next to the railing.

“Grace shows up, they argue, Grace leaves,” he went on, voice filled with excitement and a certain amount of awe. He was swirling around to prove his point or just to show off a little, and he looked great. Again, John swallowed.

“Maria remained right here, ...” He gestured at the very spot he was standing at, “waited for Grace to be out of sight and then ...” He took the stone and hung it over the railing, clinging to the gun carefully, “... prepared to die.”

He took the gun into his left hand and held it to his left temple. “Of course she knew that a right-handed person being shot into the head on the left side would rule out suicide,” he lectured, his face sober now and dead serious. “She was so driven by hatred and jealousy that killing Grace would not have been enough!” John quickly prayed that the gun was not loaded. Leave it to Sherlock to do stupid things with loaded guns.

“She did not want to merely kill Mrs Dunbar, she wanted to destroy her.” Sherlock's eyes were blazing, and John realised that probably for the first time in his life Sherlock really understood the motivation for crimes committed in the name of love.

“And she knew that even without Mrs Dunbar around, there was no way she could make her husband love her again.” He gave Neil a look that would have made braver men crumble, but it would not have been necessary anyway. Neil was standing on the bridge, eyes wide in horror, understanding what his lack of love had unintentionally caused.

“No, just killing her would not have been enough. Mr Gibson, how often have you told your wife that you loved Mrs Dunbar for her innocence and her good heart?”

There were tears glittering in Neil's eyes. “Too often,” he admitted with a trembling voice.

“Too often,” Sherlock thoughtfully repeated, staring him down without mercy. “The only way for your wife to destroy your love for Mrs Dunbar was to destroy her innocence.”

He raised the weapon to his head again. “So Mrs Gibson was standing here, knowing exactly what to do.” His voice was very low now, and everybody was automatically leaning closer. John wondered if he was the only one holding his breath.

“She had manipulated Mrs Dunbar's mobile, had placed a weapon that looked exactly like the murder weapon inside her wardrobe, and when Mrs Dunbar left ...” There was a moment of absolute quiet, and it seemed as if even the birds had stopped singing in this dramatic moment. 

“BANG” 

John jerked badly, while Sherlock triumphantly mimed firing the gun against his head and afterwards let go of it instantly. The stone fell down into the river, pulling the weapon with it into the water. It happened so fast that John nearly missed how it crashed against the ledge on its way down, leaving another chip in the stone looking exactly like the one already there.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and finally, there is sex. :-)

One wonderful thing about being in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes was that you did not have to worry about all those little white lies and decencies other people needed to get along with each other. Why, for example, pretend that he was not highly aroused by Sherlock's brilliant deduction regarding Maria's suicide when Sherlock was able to read it in his face anyway?

Another wonderful thing about their relationship was that John did not have to voice thoughts like “Not here, it's a crime scene” or “Let's go home as soon as possible” because Sherlock deduced those thoughts the moment he observed John's arousal.

So they went back to their cottage instantly after Maggie had left to release Grace from prison, and after Neil had tearfully thanked Sherlock again and again. It was more tumbling than walking, really, for Sherlock had pulled John in so closely that they had to walk in lockstep to avoid stumbling, and for John was absolutely unwilling to keep his hands off Sherlock.

Once he was comfortable with their pace, Sherlock started to use his superior height to press kisses into John's hair and onto the back of his neck while walking, an action that did nothing to stabilise them. Giggling so much while being absolutely horny was a completely new sensation to John, and one he enjoyed immensely.

When they finally reached the cottage, they nearly stumbled over a parcel waiting for them on the doorstep. “Excellent timing,” Sherlock remarked happily, dragging both John and the parcel inside. After a deep kiss that left John absolutely breathless, he opened it and smiled with joy.

John eyed its content curiously. It was filled with body care products, it seemed. “For you,” Sherlock beamed and held a tube of some kind under John's nose. It turned out to be hand lotion, obviously extremely expensive, with a fresh, citrusy smell. “Lemon grass,” Sherlock helped when John couldn't quite figure out what to say. “It complements my Tropical Island line. It's different enough to emphasise our distinct personalities, but fits with my products without creating an inappropriate odour mix.”

“That's very … thoughtful of you,” John said, still trying to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock had not only made him a present, but had also given it a lot of thought and used an online shop to get it. It was unexpectedly … nice, not an adjective he would have used for Sherlock's actions one week ago.

But then, it fit with making coffee in the morning. Maybe there was a niceness to him that simply needed to be awoken. The fact that it seemed to be directed at him, and him only caused another wave of funny feelings inside John's stomach. He smiled, and Sherlock's face lit up brightly.

“I noticed how raw your hand was when I was holding it at the seaside,” he explained, and John realised what he was talking about. The day he had told John about his father's death.

“And you ordered all this just for me?” John asked, when his eyes fell onto more tubes inside the parcel.

Sherlock followed his glance. “Yes, why?” he asked. John took some of the beauty products out of the box. Shampoo, douche gel, body lotion, body scrub, all based on lemon grass.

“That was one day before we kissed,” he pointed out. “Um,” Sherlock hummed non-committally. “What if I hadn't kissed you yesterday?” John went on, roughly guessing the value of the present to be fairly more than two hundred pounds.

“Oh,” Sherlock dismissed John's thoughts, “I would have found a way to open the box without you spying around and would have given it to you for your birthday or some other commercially romantic day.”

Before John could discuss the topic further, Sherlock embraced him from behind, pressing against him very close and whispered into his ear with his incredibly arousing low voice, “Some of those products can be used for more purposes than they were designed for. Don't you think we should test them, now that they're here?”

Oh, yes. Definitely. John shuddered, a sudden wave of new arousal, mixed with anticipation and apprehension washed over him. But Sherlock was already kissing his neck, his hands finding their way underneath John's shirt, radiating heat, turning him around after a while.

“You are nervous,” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly between kisses. Damn, was it that obvious? John pulled him closer, nodded into the hug.

“I've never … I mean ...” Following coherent thoughts was not easy with Sherlock nibbling on his earlobe like that, but they also weren't necessary in Sherlock's presence.

“I know,” was whispered into his ear. “Don't worry, I'll take the lead this time.”

With that, he stashed the body oil in his back pocket and steered John towards the bedroom, kissing and caressing him, and John had absolutely no idea how Sherlock had managed to strip him completely naked by the time they reached the bed. All he knew was that he felt like a teenager again, desperate and scared and impatient and eager to please, all at the same time. He heard his own hard ragged breathing, shamelessly intensified by the fact that Sherlock was panting as well.

He moaned, realising that Sherlock was definitely wearing too many clothes. He quickly fought with the buttons of his white shirt, trying to concentrate on the simple task while Sherlock was caressing his backside. Not easy. After some failed attempts, John simply ripped open the buttons, not giving a damn that it was one of Sherlock's favourite shirts.

He tilted his head a little to kiss Sherlock, deep and long, while he got rid of his trousers. John knew kissing was one thing he was good at, the only thing he really knew how to do right now, and he put all his love and devotion and lust into the kiss, and when his tongue played around Sherlock's the groan it got him was deep and rich and absolutely breathtaking. He continued with this wild mixture of kissing and undressing, and pretty soon all Sherlock was still wearing was his pants. 

John broke the kiss long enough to take a look at Sherlock, and God he was absolutely gorgeous, with his lean body and perfect skin, looking all self-assured and confident. And still wearing one piece of clothing too much for John's liking.

For a moment he paused, enjoying this magical moment just before he would see Sherlock's full nakedness for the first time, and instead he let his kisses wander down Sherlock's throat, and as this turned out to be a very sensitive area he remained there for a while.

“Coward,” Sherlock whispered into his ear, amused and teasing, and it was all he was capable of saying before John increased the pace of his kisses so it made Sherlock's head roll back with pleasure, and pressed their bodies so tightly together he could feel Sherlock tremble with lust.

His lips found Sherlock's once more, and at the periphery of his senses he felt Sherlock drag them both slowly down to the bed. John used that movement to finally get rid of the pants, dropping them carelessly to the ground, taking a long, close look at Sherlock afterwards. They ended up with Sherlock lying on top of him, letting his fingers run through John's short hair, his mouth finding the way to John's nipples, carefully sucking, and all John could do was grab Sherlock's back and moan.

And then there it finally was, the moment where John was entering all new territory, where he had absolutely no idea of how to go on. Well, being a doctor he knew what would be done next theoretically, but practically he was at a loss. Of course he would have known what to do with a woman at this point, several ideas, to be precisely, but with Sherlock ...

Arousal and nervousness were fighting inside of him, and suddenly Sherlock was facing him, looking at him, reading him like an open book while his hands were caressing his side. John became even more aroused under this gaze, and when their eyes met Sherlock's hands stopped. Instead, John felt one of them cupping his face, felt a soft kiss pressed onto his forehead, onto his nose, onto his lips. He also felt Sherlock's body tremble against his own.

“Coward,” John whispered into his ear, grinning, and resumed kissing that spot at Sherlock's throat he had found earlier, forcing them both to pick up pace again. He had only a basic idea of how to sleep with a man, but that was absolutely no reason for hesitation. Determinedly he spun them both around, leaning down now to kiss every part of Sherlock's body he could reach.

He heard Sherlock's breath becoming faster and faster, saw his hands falling helplessly to his side in pleasure. If he had ever doubted Sherlock's complete trust in him … Lord, he was gorgeous like this. John's hand wandered down, making Sherlock's wonderful eyes fling open in surprise. Making him moan. John could by no means imagine to get used to that splendid sound any time soon.

They spent some more time kissing and petting, working each other up until John was sure he could not stand a single second more. This was exactly the point where – if he were with a woman – they would have actual sex. Their eyes met again, and Sherlock laughed, really laughed a little. “You don't have the slightest idea of what to do now, do you?” he hissed into John's ear.

Without waiting for an answer, he flopped John down on his back once more unceremoniously. “I will lead,” he stated once more, still breathless, and John shuddered in anticipation.

He knew that certain preparations were necessary, that Sherlock would not, should not hasten it now, and yet, when he felt him shift his weight to dive for the oil, John couldn't help but stiffen a little.

But Sherlock was back in an instant, kissing John's sternum, his belly, his navel, then let his lips wander up again so delicately that John could not help but stop worrying about what Sherlock's fingers were about to do.

When the first one found its way in, John only held his breath for second, before giving in to Sherlock's kisses again, closing his eyes, only feeling the prickling sensation on his skin. Before he realised it, a second finger had found its way, and then …

And then Sherlock hit exactly the right spot, without even having to try first, and the wave of pleasure and need that washed through John was absolutely unexpected and intense and he gasped in surprise and lust. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock staring at him with the same happiness he had seen yesterday morning. Then a third finger was used, and John's eyes involuntarily closed again, shuddering each time the spot was pressed.

He felt Sherlock shift his weight again after some time, withdrawing his fingers, and heard him breathe even faster now. Then his movements came to a sudden halt. John looked at him again, saw his frown. “What?” he asked, wondering if he had missed something. He received another kiss as an answer, slow and deep.

Then Sherlock drew back his head a little and looked deep into John's eyes, nose frowning. “You want to be able to look at my face while we do it,” he deduced then, “even though it would be easier for you if you wouldn't.”

John gave him a little half-grin, “When did I ever go for easy?”

Sherlock nodded, all sober now, and reached for the oil once more, not taking his eyes from John. The evening sun was shining into the room, illuminating Sherlock's face in an almost unearthly way. It was flushed with heat, sweat plastering his curls to his head, and there was a need in his gaze that made John shiver.

Sherlock looked at John contemplatively for a moment, then took his legs and placed them unceremoniously onto his own shoulders. He leaned forward to press another wave of kisses onto John's body, to lock the fingers of his hand with John's, while the other one was still down there. For a second or two, his hesitation mirrored John's. Then, with one fast, determined movement, pushed forward and was inside of him.

Inside. Of him. The thought alone would have been enough to make John hard, but instantly afterwards, Sherlock's hand was there again, holding him with a firm grip, while the other was still holding on to John's hand. It was obvious now that he was only holding back for John's sake, for his eyes were wide with arousal and … and what? Surprise?

John, still unsure of what to do, held his hips still for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to figure out the right angle. Sherlock frowned in concentration, watching John closely every time he pushed, looking like there was nothing more important to him right now than John's arousal. That thought helped a lot to keep John's feelings high.

Then there was no time to think about it any longer, for suddenly Sherlock finally hit exactly the right spot, and his face lit. John was hit by surprise and unable to suppress a scream. Sherlock's grin widened, and he picked up pace again. With increasing confidence Sherlock seemed to coordinate hips and hand better. Now every pull his hand made had exactly the the right amount of pressure at exactly the right time, and every moan that escaped Sherlock's lips drove its way deep inside John's soul.

The pace got faster, more demanding, and John was groaning now with pleasure, and so was Sherlock, and John realised that they were both calling out each other's names and that he was squeezing Sherlock's hand probably too hard and that Sherlock was sweating, his curls a damp mess, and that his own hips had started to move on their own accord, matching Sherlock's movements and that Sherlock's eyes were half closed in pleasure and then …

Then for a wonderful, agonizing moment there was only a heatwave of pure lust and pleasure and it was right and it hurt and his body was shaking and arching and Sherlock went on and on and on and he heard him making high pitched groans, ragged and desperate, and he went on and on and he heard himself shouting and then he felt Sherlock coming inside of him and almost instantly he came himself, pulsing underneath Sherlock's hand and the world exploded and then …

And then he felt Sherlock collapsing into an exhausted heap on top of him, and it had been perfect and wonderful and everything he had never known he wanted and he was breathing hard and everything was right.

They lay like that for a long time, not talking, for what could be said after a miracle like that? John stroked Sherlock's back, marvelling at the sweat that was still sticking to it, at the smell of sex that was still lingering in the air. Sherlock had placed his head on John's chest and was making little humming sounds that were wonderful and sweet.

After a while, Sherlock started to shiver, and so John grabbed the duvet to cover them both. “Well,” Sherlock said finally, “I … that was ...” he stopped, and looked at John quizzically, like he was trying to solve some really difficult case.

“Amazing?” John helped, and added, “Fantastic, brilliant, breath-taking?”

Sherlock gazed at him intensely. “It … I … You liked it, then,” he stated, relief and content written all over his face.

John chuckled involuntarily. “Well, I would use stronger words to describe the best orgasm I ever had, but ...” He chuckled again, “Yes. Yes, I quite liked it.”

“So,” Sherlock marvelled, “did I.” And then John understood, mentally kicking his butt for not realising what must have gone on inside Sherlock's mind.

“Unlike all the times before?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Did you expect yourself to like it this time?” John implored further, and Sherlock looked at him with a shy smile.

“Theoretically yes. I've been told that when dealing with a person you love the whole span of sexual activities could be quite … satisfying: I just did not expect it to be that amazing. Apparently I had always completely underestimated the effect love would add to the biochemical processes.”

Despite everything that had happened before, it was that comment that made John's ears flush, and for a moment he did not know what to say. He let his fingers wander all over Sherlock's face, touching his lips and his cheeks and his temples, and smiled when Sherlock hummed at that. “I love you too,” he said then, kissing these gorgeous lips one last time before nudging against him, slowly drifting into sleep.

***

On the morning of their tenth day at Achitlibuie, John and Sherlock learnt a lot of things. One thing John already knew was that Sherlock was not one for sleep-ins. Even though John woke up rather early, the bed was already empty, but the smell of coffee was hanging temptingly in the air.

The first thing that John learnt that day was that even though Sherlock did not stay in bed for long, early morning sex was still an option. It just did not start in bed. John also learnt that it was enough to wander into the living room and look at a naked Sherlock longingly to get him started.

It was not long until they were all hands and mouths and panting. All the control Sherlock had shown during that perfect first time sex the night before seemed to be gone, and they were both equally tumbling and fighting for balance while kissing so feverishly that it was hard to believe they had both been satisfied only seven hours before.

Unfortunately they both also learnt that with John being the penetrating one, the kitchen table was simply too high to be used, no matter how enthusiastically you had already swept off everything that had been on it.

But then, John learnt that even though Sherlock was a true perfectionist in real life, he developed an easygoing attitude when it came to having sex with John, simply laughing off the height problem, dragging them both down to the kitchen floor, turning around obediently.

He also did not mind John being way too unbalanced when approaching Sherlock from behind, way too inexperienced to really take care of Sherlock's needs, not able to figure out how to use his hands for something other than holding himself in place, just fully concentrating on not losing balance and getting the angle right. Which he probably managed to do only one or two times or so.

It could have been five awkward minutes of sex, really, with John entering way too fast and then being too aroused to hold back, coming after only a few badly coordinated thrusts. But it was not. When John started to apologise he was called an idiot for thinking there was a reason to do so, and then he was kissed deeply, probably only to be stopped from further talking.

Shortly afterwards John learnt that Sherlock had not yet comprehended the true reason for taking a shower together, so he willingly showed him. Sherlock properly learnt how erotic the use of shower gel could be, and why it was better to be lathered by John.

John learnt that you could get Sherlock humming with every action that had to do with his head and his hair. Sherlock learnt very quickly that it was not easy to remain standing on your own when being taken care of underneath the running shower, but that John was really stronger than he looked.

In the end they were both sitting underneath the warm sprinkling of water, happy and satisfied once more, and it was John's turn to tell Sherlock he was an idiot, for apologizing for being the only one who had had an orgasm underneath the shower.

It was when they were fully dressed afterwards, had breakfast and were planning what to do with the rest of the day, that John learnt the most important thing about their relationship: that Sherlock believed him. Unswervingly. And that was good, because had he not, a murderer would have gone free unbeknownst to them.

***

Sherlock's face fell with the ringing of the doorbell. “Four seconds long at 11:36. Looks like Miss Dunbar came over to thank us for our incredible genius in proving her innocence,” he grumbled. John failed to see anything bad about being thanked for that, but then, he also failed to see why Sherlock was still “not jealous” of her.

But since mentioning that would lead to nothing, he opened the door instead, only to be instantly hugged by Grace. From the corners of his eyes he saw Sherlock stiffen. They had been depression-free for more than a day now, and John only hoped that Grace did not unintentionally trigger a new wave of darkness. But no, all she seemed to be triggering was jealous petulance.

“Thank you, thank you,” she mumbled over and over again, unperturbed by Sherlock's sour face.

Her hand was still resting on John's arm when she stopped hugging him. 

Sherlock was still fuming silently.

John did all he could to stop himself from from rolling his eyes. By then, Grace had started to thank both of them alternatively while still standing too close to John. All right, he needed to bring this to an end. No matter how flattered he was by the fact that finally someone paid more attention to him than to Sherlock, he was also very aware of Sherlock's feelings right then.

The very second he placed his hand on her arm to gently push it away from his, he was literally pulled outside by some dark-curled elemental force. “You'll excuse us!” Sherlock spat in Grace's direction before slamming the cottage door shut from the outside.

In front of the house, Sherlock let go of John instantly and started to … Well, it was not easy to say what exactly he was doing. If it had not been Sherlock, John would have said he was fidgeting with abashment. His whole body seemed to be in motion, including his face that was doing really funny things. It was tempting to just stand and watch it for a while.

Tempting, but unfair. “Sherlock ...” John started, and that broke the spell.

Sherlock came to a halt and looked at John. Not deducing, but … looking. His shoulders sagged, and he said quietly, “I am jealous.”

John did his best not to grin. “No, really?” he asked, and Sherlock responded to the mild teasing by leaning against John.

“I have never been jealous,” he stated, with a hint of marvel in his voice.

“You have never been in love,” John pointed out, and that got him a glance like he had said something breathtakingly brilliant.

If that was the look he always gave Sherlock for his deductions it was no wonder Sherlock liked it so much.

They were silent for a moment and then John moved back just enough to look into Sherlock's eyes once more. “You don't have any reason to be, love. You know that, don't you?”

Sherlock did some more fidgeting, then nodded. “Of course!” He shook his head and gave John a small, bashful smile. “I know now,” he corrected himself and …

… transformed to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective within the fraction of a second. “Oh, that's clever. She's been clever,” he exclaimed, his whole body in motion once more, but this time confident and upright. It looked like he was going through a whole load of memories in his mind, his hands moving like he was sorting files or rearranging images. “Yes, there's the … But how did she …I see, and then ... Oh, she's CLEVER! Well done, John.”

He whirled around while sending a text, pressed a kiss on John's face without giving too much thought of the exact location of John's mouth and therefore hitting him somewhere between the cheekbone and the eye, and dragged him back inside without further explanation.

“Miss Dunbar,” he said, all arrogance and self-assuredness once more, “how nice of you to pay us one last visit.” He faked a little smile, then his eyes turned cold. “Wanting to prove to yourself how skilful you are in distracting me one more time?”

Grace looked from John to Sherlock back to John. “I don't understand, Sher ...”

“Oh yes, you do. Stumbled over your vanity in the end. Had you not decided to pay us this visit, you would have got away with it”

John had no idea what had gone on in his friend’s brain, but he knew what was going on now, for he had seen the gestures and mimics more often than he could count. Sherlock believed that Grace was guilty. And strangely, the woman seemed to see it too, for she stepped back a little, thereby moving in John's direction, appearing helpless and intimidated. On purpose.

John reacted by subtly stepping aside, maintaining the distance between them. She shot him an irritated glance, then focused on Sherlock once more. “I really don't ...”

“Please, Miss Dunbar, you have played it so well up to here,” Sherlock said coldly, “don't hide your intellect now.” Something changed in Grace's lovely, innocent face, making it into something cold and hard.

“You have already proven my innocence, Mr Holmes,” she stated, trying to maintain control and failing, “with a chain of evidence that was flawless. Who would now believe in the stutters of a jealous...”

“Don't be boring now,” he disrupted her mercilessly. “You can be proud of yourself for making me play along with your little scheme. Not many have succeeded in that, I can assure you. I am sure that you will have plenty of time to celebrate yourself in prison. I have texted Miss Coventry already, she is on her way here to arrest you.”

Grace paled, and after one last glance at John, she seemed to lose her final hope of getting away. Her body sagged, and she slumped down onto one of the kitchen chairs. Sherlock's face was all victory and pride. John had no idea what either were talking about.

“How did you realise?” she asked, voice trembling, eyes set on the ground. One of Sherlock's favourite questions, without doubt. He started explaining it to her, but his eyes wandered to John several times, seeking his approval.

“You knew exactly who we were when you first met John at the seaside,” he said, his voice lower now. “You realised that you were presented with the chance to plot the murder you've been contemplating for so long, and you only established contact with John to set off your plan.”

Grace just watched him silently, hatred no longer hidden. “It was a murder out of love and passion after all, but you have not been in love with Mr. Gibson.” Were there tears glittering in her eyes now? “It was Mrs. Gibson who turned you down, who was not willing to give up her comfortable life for you.”

Oh. John had to admit that thought had not occurred to him. “How...” he started, and Sherlock disrupted him instantly, grinning smugly.

“Her reactions to me mentioning both the Gibsons' names when I was interrogating her. I only did not realise it because … “ Sherlock flushed a little. 

“... because you were too busy being jealous,” John completed the sentence.

“I missed many hints because I was jealous,” Sherlock admitted, and his gaze fell back on Grace. “A state of mind you induced in me on purpose, Miss Dunbar.”

She stared at them coldly and responded, “And it was so easy. Touch your beloved doctor on his arm, give him one deep look, turn away from the sleuth to face his friend and smile at him, and you were fuming already. I did not even have to try very hard!”

The arrogance in her face equalled Sherlock's now. “I've read your blogs. I knew the good doctor would be touched by a damsel in need. So I framed it on myself, to make him convince you to prove my innocence.”

She smiled at them coldly. “Whenever you came close to seeing it, whenever I had to lie to you, I touched his arm again, or gave him a deep look, and your attention was sufficiently diverted to make you overlook what I was doing right in front of your nose, Mr. Holmes. Tell me, what has changed? How could you see it all of sudden? I did not make a mistake, I'm sure of that!”

Sherlock looked at John steadily when he explained, “I was told that there was no need to be jealous, so I stopped it. Going through the entire case again without being distracted brought it to my attention instantly.”

“You stopped being jealous simply because I told you you could?” John could not stop himself from asking.

Sherlock's nose wrinkled, “Yes, of course!”

“Of course” John echoed, wondering if Sherlock knew what an immense amount of trust and faith he had just displayed. Probably not.

“Your murder has been nearly perfect, Miss Dunbar.” Sherlock refocussed his attention to her and explained, “You even thought about shooting her in the left side of her head even though she was right-handed, making it look like she had used the wrong hand only to frame her death on you. I should have seen it earlier!”

“But you were distracted,” Grace said smugly.

“Indeed,” Sherlock admitted once more, “distracted by both jealousy and the beauty of such a elegantly framed murder. Staging a suicide to blame a husband's affair for murder, what an elegant idea! You knew I would be intrigued by that! You had placed the weapon in your own wardrobe, had manipulated your mobile yourself, and then waited patiently for me to take the bait.”

“How did you make her hold still?” John wondered. They both looked at him now, and he explained, “You arranged a meeting at the bridge, and I can understand why Maria came. But to shoot her into the head from that range you had to lure her close to you. How?”

Grace gave him another cold smile, “Pleaded for one last kiss, then pressed the gun against her head, pretending I would let her go if she confessed her love for me.” John watched Sherlock stiffen a bit.

“And you would have, wouldn't you? You would have spared her life had she only been able to love you!”

“But she did not. She said I had only been an affair to her. A dangerous little adventure right under the nose of her possessive husband. Said all the other former home tutors had always willingly left when it had been over. But I ...” Grace's voice broke.

“But you loved her,” Sherlock concluded, and John could have sworn there was a twinge of sympathy in his voice. Grace was silent, and she remained silent until Maggie finally arrived and took her away.


	9. Epilogue

The harsh December wind was blowing merciless across the coast, and normally John would have loved it. On a windy day like this the coast was always completely empty but for him, for no one else was willing to face the cold that would try to chill you right to the bones. The wind was blowing so strongly that the waves were higher than normal, and foam was constantly blown into your face. Being at the seaside on a day like this usually made John feel defiant and sturdy, his body taking in all the energy of the wind. 

Today, it only made him melancholic. He had never been particularly good at saying goodbye, and over the last few month this funny little village at the end of the world had found a way straight into his heart. Knowing that they would leave for London the next morning should make him happy, and most of the time it did, but right now he felt like Achitlibuie was exactly the place he wanted to be for the rest of their lives.

And could he be blamed for it? Ever since the Gibson case had been solved, Sherlock's condition had improved, slowly but steadily, and John was absolutely sure that the Scottish surroundings had helped just as much as he had himself. They had spent August and the better part of September getting used to the fact that they were really a couple, and it had kept them busy for the time being. In October, Sherlock's attacks of tiredness suddenly came to an end, and it had already been November when he had had the last relapse into his dark, self-loathing mood.

So when he had suggested returning to London between Christmas and New Year, in this funny, almost shy way he had now when he really wanted something from John, it had sounded like a good idea. John had understood that starting the next year back home was very important to Sherlock, and when he had finally become restless at the beginning of December John had known that they had made the right decision.

John himself was looking forward to returning to London, too. He was missing the pulse of the city, the insane amount of people, the sheer business of the place. And the cases. Oh God, the cases. He could only imagine how glorious it would be, them being on a case together, not just friends and colleagues any longer, but lovers.

And still … And still John did not feel like leaving tomorrow. At first, he had thought it was because he had grown so fond of Achitlibuie. But now, sitting in the harsh December wind, it dawned to him that it was only partly true. What was really nagging at him was how their relationship had settled into a wonderful routine, and there was no telling how London was going to change that.

“Of course things will change, but surely not for the worse” he suddenly heard Sherlock's voice right next to his ear, and he jumped involuntarily. But only a little, truth to be told. You could not be in a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes without getting used to the fact that he would suddenly appear out of thin air next to you. John mustered him, and couldn't help but smile at the sight. His cheeks were flushed from the cold, curls flying around his head wildly, due to Sherlock's strict refusal to wear a cap. A refusal that had left him with a mean cold in October and an excellent immunity system afterwards.

Sherlock caught his glance and smiled back casually, and for the nth time John couldn't help but marvel at how much at ease Sherlock was with their relationship now. Even with gloves it was way too cold for embraces, and so John just moved closer, until he was leaning against Sherlock's tall figure. “Surely not,” he agreed, half shouting to be heard against the wind. He felt Sherlock nod against the back of his head, and for a while they remained standing like that.

“I'm going to miss this place,” John admitted then, for the first time voicing the thought that had been wandering around his head for two weeks now. 

In his back, Sherlock pressed even closer, placed a kiss into his neck, and said, “I need to show you something.”

With that he spun around, striding back to the coastal street, leaving John to hurry and follow. Which he did, of course, as always. They walked wordlessly side by side for a while, until they turned left and the quiet road led them to one of the little white huts typical for that part of Achitlibuie. In front of it, Sherlock stopped so suddenly that John almost ran into him. “What do you think?”, Sherlock asked, sounding unusually eager.

John felt himself frown. He knew the hut. It had belonged to an old man who had died before they had arrived here in summer. For a while it had been occupied by Christopher, his younger brother. Only a few weeks ago he had moved to Ullapool, to be closer to his daughter. It had been empty ever since. John was close to asking “What about it?” when the answer to this question suddenly dawned on him. His jaw slacked. “The cottage?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded, carefully avoiding John's glance.

“I've always thought about retiring in Sussex when we're old,” he explained, even faster then when deducing or showing of, “you know, in a little cottage with a garden and bee-hives and and probably even a ridiculous dog you would hold dear, and this climate surely won't do us any good should one of us catch arthritis, and it would be far away from any friends or family members that would still be alive, but this is where it started, were we started, and we could go to the seaside everyday where we first kissed and wander the hills we've grown so fond of, and every now or then we could visit London should we miss it too much ...”

His voice trailed of, and he still avoided making eye contact with John. It took only a little thinking to figure out why. “You have already bought it,” John stated rather than asked, and Sherlock nodded slightly, eyes trained on the cottage. John thought that he should feel left out, but didn't. Instead, a wave of warmth flooded his stomach. “You have bought a place for us to grow old together?” 

The warmth he felt must have made its way into his voice, for Sherlock turned to face him abruptly, cheeks flushed. “Yes,” he said, mustering John closely. Then his face lit up, and his shoulders relaxed so much that John could see it even though the warm coat was hiding most of Sherlock's silhouette. He started to grin, and John grinned back. 

Later they would have to discuss what to do with the cottage in the meantime, would have to travel back to London to face everyday life, would have to figure out more than one major issue on the way to growing old together. But for now, they stood huddled against each other, facing the cold wind, looked at the cottage and cherished another of those little perfect moments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to all who have followed Crossing Bridges regularly and to all who left comments. Your feedback was encouraging and heartwarming. I hope you enjoyed the end!
> 
> Enormous thanks again to the armada of people who helped bringing Crossing Bridges to life, by beta-ing, giving advice and telling me honestly where the flwas were hidden. You've all been fantastic!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, commenting and / or leaving kudos.
> 
> Find me on tumblr: http://schmiezi.tumblr.com/


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